October
by The Carnivorous Muffin
Summary: It is not paradox to rewrite history, in the breath of a single moment a universe blooms into existence as another path fades from view, Tom Riddle meets an aberration on the train to Hogwarts and the rest is in flux. AU, time travel, Death!Harry
1. Chapter 1

Tom Riddle first met Death on the train to Hogwarts, although he did not know it at the time.

He had been looking for an empty compartment not quite willing to seek out these other wizards yet, not until he could get his footing at the very least. To go so suddenly from being special, to be so different from ordinary humans, to being one of a group was disconcerting. He had mentors now, others of his kind, he was no longer isolated in mediocrity but there were other times he felt loss because he had been something so beyond compression and now he was one of many. Perhaps brilliant, perhaps very talented, but certainly nothing that could not be imagined.

He had taken one of the last rooms sliding the door closed with a sense of finality, it was only once he had sat in his seat and begun to dig through materials that he noticed he was not as alone as he thought. There was a boy, someone around his age no doubt, sitting next to the window in the place where the light couldn't reach. He wore dark layered clothing whose origin Tom could not place except to say that it was not English. His face was a pale immobile mask save for a single red scar, a crude lightning bolt, carved into his forehead and his eyes burned like sunlight filtering through green leaves beneath black feathered hair. On a whole he looked odd but it was even more than these individual features that Tom found disturbing it was the way they were put together, as if a very gifted artist had been told to craft a human and had ended with something almost but not quite, all the parts and pieces were there but they did not fit.

Tom stiffened as he caught sight of those bizarre eyes but in spite of the fact that the other boy was looking straight at him it was as if he hadn't seen Tom at all. Almost as if he were blind his eyes stared forward, looking past Tom and the compartment, until it seemed as he was viewing everything and nothing at once. He seemed perfectly content to stare ahead with that strangely solemn blank expression on his face, Tom almost let him, but then gave into that nagging voice in his mind that told him that no one should be able to simply ignore Tom Riddle even if he was just another wizard.

"My name is Tom Riddle, yours?" He asked, the other boy blinked suddenly and seemed to focus on Tom an expression of surprise gracing his features. For a moment he said nothing but his eyes seemed to glow for a moment boring through Tom until they had seen all he had been and ever could be.

"This is unexpected." The boy said in a soft tone that somehow pervaded through the entire apartment.

Tom wasn't sure quite what to say to that, he felt the sudden overwhelming need to prove his existence to this complete stranger. He frowned and commented, "It's rude not to introduce yourself when they've already told you their name."

The boy turned from him to stare out the window taking in the rushing green of Scotland with those bizarre eyes. Finally he turned back with an almost haunted expression and whispered, "I am eternity."

"I'm sorry?"

The boy looked at him and asked suddenly in a more present voice, "What year is it?"

"1938." Tom responded without pause, "May I ask how it is this has escaped your attention?"

The boy tipped his head back and began to laugh suddenly spewing out words in an unknown language that rolled and lilted off his tongue, a jagged harsh laughter that seemed terrible and broken all at once. The question suddenly sounded absurd, even to Tom's ears, until it was more ridiculous than not knowing the date at all.

Finally the boy calmed down with a strange half-attempted smile that spoke more of pain than any actual happiness, "Forgive me Tom Riddle, I seem to have misplaced myself."

It was at that moment that Tom Riddle made the great error of disregarding everything this strange boy said for a case of insanity. (Although, once again, he would not realize this mistake at the time.)

"Does that happen often?" Tom asked in a dry tone that suggested that it did in the worst of ways.

The boy's smile grew became more wry, shifted slightly, and his eyes seemed to sparkle, "Occasionally." He sighed and became somewhat grim again, "The next great adventure, strange how I always think back to that particular phrasing, isn't it? Yet, in this case, it does seem to fit. Or is it a prelude to the old adventure, who knows, I certainly never imagined that taking the train would involve this."

He sighed before focusing back in on Tom Riddle, "I suppose you may call me whatever you like, I have no real preference and you do have a thing for names."

Tom felt himself gritting his teeth at that last comment despite the fact that all that drivel beforehand had made no sense whatsoever, he knew that somehow it was a very specific dig at him, not just for his insistence on the boy introducing himself but something deeper. It was true, he had always hated his own name, but this boy couldn't possibly know that. He managed to force his displeasure into a grin.

"Is that so, anything I want? That's rather dangerous isn't it? You could end up with something highly embarrassing with that kind of attitude." Tom pointed out slyly, the other boy's smile did not dim however, much to Tom's disappointment.

"I find that I am that I am, Tom Riddle, a name will not change that no matter how hard it may try." He said before waving a hand, "Besides, I've probably had far worse than whatever you can come up with."

Right then and there Tom vowed to surpass that challenge and make this green eyed lunatic regret the day he had ever said those words so nonchalantly. He was so very possessed, more so even than Tom himself, a confidence that radiated outwards and caused everything around him to seem less definite in comparison. He seemed untouchable, the expression in his eyes at once distant and profound, as if he was staring down at humanity from thousands of miles above them. It wasn't condescending either, merely distant and alien, but even so Tom hated the expression and this boy along with it.

"Well, for you I'll have to make something truly special then, won't I?"

The boy smiled back at him, "I'm sure you will."

Tom decided to control the conversation once again, "Now that introductions are out of the way I suppose we can get to the real information. What year are you?"

The boy peered down at himself in a confused if somewhat bemused manner, inspected his pale hands with alarming interest before looking back up at Tom, "I guess this would be my first."

"You guess?" Tom asked, "I didn't think it was a debatable fact."

"All facts are debatable when the nature of reality itself is in debate." The boy supplied with a speed that was uncanny, "Still, that's not really what I meant; I've just been deciding whether I want to go at all."

"If you didn't want to come why did you get on the train in the first place?" Tom snapped.

The boy's face changed became older, his eyes grew dimmer as if clouds had passed over, and the cabin itself seemed to shift and grow jagged. In a soft voice that was far too empty he said, "I had spent too much time not taking the train that I no longer had a choice. In the end it was a train to Somewhere."

"Really?" Tom asked in a dry manner, "Well now that you are on the train do you plan to go to Hogwarts, it'd be rather inconvenient to jump ship now so to speak."

The boy considered the question, "I suppose, I have no reason _not_ to go really, well perhaps a few but nothing truly pertinent."

Tom sneered but the boy didn't seem to mind, in fact seemed more comfortable with Tom's increasing displeasure, it was as if he looked at him and knew the universe was in balance simply because he was unhappy.

"Any ideas what house you'll be in?" Tom asked, still with disdain but genuinely curious. Given the descriptions he couldn't picture this boy in any house. He wanted to very badly as well, so that he could dissect him and stereotype him on given models, but nothing seemed to fit.

Again there appeared to be a lot of thought put into his answer it was as if he turned his gaze inward and had to search through himself to find any semblance of answer, "Not a clue." He said finally with a strangely puzzled expression as if he should have known but didn't, "You?"

For a moment Tom paused, he'd been about to answer Slytherin, and then amend that Ravenclaw was also a possibility but that had been just it, there had been no thought put into it. He'd seen the descriptions and he'd known instantly, and yet this unnamed boy had had to truly think about it before declaring simply that he didn't know, was Tom somehow more shallow to have found the answer so quickly? Or, he thought snidely, perhaps the boy was merely an idiot incapable of the tiniest bit of self-reflection.

The boy seemed to catch on to his train of thought and waved his hand absentmindedly as if to brush away Tom's concerns, "I think most people have at least some idea going in, I'm just a little bit weird that way, don't mind me."

Was it just Tom or was the boy trying harder; changing his speech patterns little by little so that he sounded more natural? Before, when Tom had first arrived, he had been nearly unintelligible and yet there had been a sense of poetry to his words, not with an accent but still in a way that almost seemed foreign, whereas now he still sounded odd but at the same time more casual. He was relaxing into something resembling a Hogwarts student, changing himself to fit some preconceived idea of what Hogwarts student was. Had Tom walked in on this student he may have found him just as obnoxious and perhaps odd but he wouldn't have had that initial moment of doubt.

"How self-deprecating." Tom commented drily, without any real inflection, and the boy shrugged with that same damned smile.

After that Tom let the conversation drift no longer interested in this bizarre future classmate of his, surely other wizards were more sane than this one, and pulled out some of his textbooks to glance at while he passed the time. The boy lost presence and slowly but surely faded from his mind until he was little more than the dark shadow he presented as he walked swiftly past Tom and off the train.

**Author's Note: Originally this was going to be a one-shot but then I was not even half way through and it was already approaching 10,000 words so instead I'll have many chapters on the shorter end. Explanations on what exactly is going on here will be a long time coming, as in many chapters away, but there will be explanations eventually so... sit tight? Thanks for reading, reviews are most welcome.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.**


	2. Chapter 2

The boy from the train was, ironically, the first to be sorted. The group of huddled first years stood together in awe of the castle, eyes glistening as they fastened on the glittering gold of chandeliers and the spectral mists of the deceased. Tom himself, although no less amazed by his surroundings, also took time to analyze his peers. He was almost surprised to find that they seemed just like normal children, just like the children at the orphanage, similar to him in only the most rudimentary of fashions. He wasn't sure what he had expected but seeing them brought an unexpected ache in his chest, as if he had wanted something more from them.

Once or twice his eyes had lingered on his companion from the train; he seemed strangely aloof, as if walking through a great bout of fog, unconcerned for the illusions presented in his surroundings. There was a slight, almost nostalgic smile, on his lips but it did not gleam and his eyes did not stray from the path before him. He walked as if he knew, without looking, that the universe would extend itself before him if necessary.

Each time his eyes found the nameless boy Tom would look away in annoyance, he was just another one of the mob, worse than the mob even. At least the herd of school children had some semblance of sanity.

Perhaps the greatest disappointment of the night though lay in the fact that they were to be sorted by a talking hat. He wasn't sure what he had expected, he had known it couldn't be based on magical skill (the school promised to teach everything), and he hadn't expected a written test for the same reason, but still a hat. Surely they could have come up with something slightly better than that. He wasn't alone in his thoughts though, all the students, even those who had the air of being raised by wizards seemed shocked by the hat. In fact only one student didn't seem surprised, much to Tom's irritation, was the boy from the train. (He'd later find out that it was tradition to keep the hat a secret, for God knew what purpose, and that even in wizarding families it was considered in good form to let the children be surprised by the hat rather than walk in knowing exactly what to expect.)

Tom never did hear the boy's first name that day, only his last; he had not thought it would be necessary to know him by more than a few syllables. His one thought, as Dumbledore shouted that strange almost reverent name, was that he was correct the boy was most definitely foreign.

"Azrael."

The boy had walked with solemn grace to where the hat sat, those shifting green eyes had caressed its worn features, and with pale fingers he placed the hat over his head where it quickly settled hiding the majority of his features.

There they waited and waited. Tom took the chance to observe the audience of older students, at first they watched with vague interest, but then as the minutes wore on their interest grew and soon all eyes were on the boy in the chair. It was taking too long, Tom thought distantly, and everyone knew it. Dumbledore himself, the wizard who had introduced Tom to the wizarding world by pretending to set his wardrobe on fire, began to look troubled and the spark that had been in his eyes after shouting that first name was fading into something far grimmer. No one moved to interrupt the sorting but everyone began to watch with wary eyes wondering if the hat had finally broken.

Before anyone could say the thought aloud the hat said, in a curiously solemn tone, "Hufflepuff."

The room let out a collective breath, the Hufflepuffs began to cheer more out of relief than any real enthusiasm. The boy faded back into obscurity with a small bow and wandered over to the table sporting yellow and black.

Later that hour, without much surprise, Tom was placed into Slytherin and told he would accomplish great things.

* * *

Months passed. The days grew shorter as classes wore on with Tom indisputably at the lead of each one. It was strange, how extraordinary he was even among magic users, he had suspected that might be the case but it was never the less bizarre. They all happily proclaimed that he was a prodigy, all except Dumbledore who would instead eye him with a wariness that shouldn't belong to an eleven year old, and Tom accepted it with as much humility as he could muster (which wasn't very much but he did put on a good show).

As for his peers they quickly proved to be little more than the orphans with glorified power. Rich, entitled, elitist brats whose sole worth was based on their fathers and their fathers' fathers they would sit and discuss their wealth in the common room sparing eyes for him only when it proved witty to insult the mudblood. After a few classes, where he had destroyed their academic standings, some had tried to find him and teach him his place. Tom had been playing that game for years.

They never did like it when the tables were turned; it always made him want to laugh.

Generally he was now left alone by members of his house as well as others, a situation he did not find unpleasant. He had never truly needed companionship, had learned very early that he could survive without it, could thrive without it even. So he allowed himself to be cast into the role of observer, the mudblood, who sat in the corners with thick books and watched the glittering archaic world that belonged to wizards with detached amusement.

Mostly the other students swarmed together in his memories but a few individuals stuck out for various reasons. Myrtle Stewart, his fellow first year outcast was one, although they had been cast out for different reasons. Tom Riddle was alone because he was a mudblood sociopath who had dared to be sorted into Slytherin, Myrtle Stewart was a social pariah because she was a shrieking banshee who whined at every given opportunity, her blood status didn't help either.

Slytherin shared Charms with the Ravenclaws and though Tom was quite proficient in the area and very eager to learn more he couldn't help but dread the period where he would have to listen to her insufferable whimpering and worse tears as she once again failed to cast a single spell. Tom was no stranger to the desire to _hurt _to take others and make them _bleed_, but he had never before wanted to mindlessly _kill_. Thankfully it was only once a week, the only other times she could be seen were those moments where she retreated to the girl's bathroom in the dungeons to sob.

Abraxas Malfoy had also made a bit of an impression. He was the ring leader of the purebloods in the first year. A thin blonde boy with grey eyes he lorded over the common room with his tales of wealth and social occasions. It was amazing to Tom that someone could be so confident, have so much pride, when they were an eleven year old living at the whims of their parents and traditions.

Perhaps what also made Malfoy notable was his crusade to bring down Tom's reputation with a word whose muggle equivalence in foulness would be whoreson. He had no doubt expected to be at the head of his classes, possibly having been taught the basics as a small child, and had been quite shocked when the uppity Slytherin mudblood had dared to surpass him. It was as if Malfoy believed that if he stated that Tom was worthless enough times he would suddenly become worthless and reality would reassert itself in a more pleasant order. Tom just smiled.

The oddest by far remained the boy he had met on the train, the Hufflepuff Azrael. Tom hadn't kept too close an eye on him, he hadn't seen the point. But he'd soon noted that Azrael had claimed for himself the outcast position in Hufflepuff, all they needed was a Gryffindor and they could have a little club, Tom thought to himself with a bitter smile. Azrael was not obnoxious like Myrtle nor was he a product of unfortunate birth like Tom, instead he was removed as if he was only physically within Hogwarts if there at all. Tom had never glimpsed him at meals, never passed him in the hallways; it was as if he existed only in the classrooms. He was very much foreign although no one knew quite where he was from, he didn't appear to be from Europe at least not France or Germany, for the words he occasionally would speak when he forgot himself did not sound Romantic or Germanic in the slightest. He would quietly sit among the students, hands placed before him wrapped in black so that only pale fingers were revealed, and watch as his professors lectured even as it was clear his mind wandered elsewhere.

It wasn't so much that the others disliked him or that he disliked others more that they drifted from one another trapped as if they were in separate planes. For the most part the strange boy was ignored or at least left as an unspoken curiosity, like the elephant in the room he would sit in solitude while everyone else looked everywhere but at him.

However, these were small observations, certainly nothing worth of Tom's time. He ended up spending more and more time in the library, nose in one book after another, as he attempted to make the best use of his time in this strange new world he had found for himself.

For the most part Tom did not think on his peers.

* * *

He felt the need with Azrael, more than any other student, to justify his disinterest. To remind himself that he was better than the boy from the train and that the boy was barely worthy of having a name. He'd dully note the oddities surrounding him and then almost immediately dismiss him from thought as if he'd already taken too much time to consider him.

However there was one particular incident that dwelled in his mind whenever his thoughts did turn to green-eyed Azrael.

It was the first Transfiguration class, shared with the Hufflepuffs, and Dumbledore was surveying the students with a jovial smile. There was something so inherently false about the man, everything far too well placed, as if this were little more than a show to convince himself of his own kindheartedness. When he first saw Tom his eyes flickered, they darkened slightly, the show came to a shuddering stop before they moved to someone else and regained that cheery twinkle.

Dumbledore went on at length to describe transfiguration, the basic process, what it could achieve, and its dangers when taken too lightly by foolish wizards. He ended his introduction by distributing matchsticks to each student instructing them to turn them into silver needles.

Tom had been focused on his task at first but that was accomplished easily enough, without much thought the match stick had turned into a shining needle. He set it aside and began to observe the rest of the class. It was then that he noticed something odd, Azrael held in his hands a glittering needle as well, holding it up to the light to inspect its authenticity.

No other student had come close to making a needle yet, the rest still struggling, Dumbledore was still inspecting the others work not even thinking to look for those who might have accomplished the task.

More than that though his eyes narrowed as he searched Azrael and realized, almost with alarm, that the boy didn't have a wand. Tom searched the table again, almost frantically, but again he saw nothing but the boys own hands holding the silver needle.

Dumbledore's eyes met his for a moment, saw his transformed match stick, and disregarded him. Despite Tom's own observations of the red headed professor he felt a slight sting, as if he had been unexpectedly slapped, and watched as the professor's eyes made their way to the other successful student. At first he smiled, that cheerful smile, and opened his mouth to congratulate Azrael and then he saw there was no wand in the boy's hand.

"Mr. Azrael," Dumbledore addressed the boy, the boy set down the match stick and turned his attention to Dumbledore. It seemed that until that moment the boy had not been focusing on the class at all because his eyes gained a certain sharpness as they turned to focus on the professor. Dumbledore paused slightly taking in the intensity of his student's gaze before continuing, "Where is your wand?"

The boy didn't answer right away; he seemed to be calculating something, perhaps remembering where he had misplaced it that morning, finally he said, "Vienna."

A few people laughed and Dumbledore's expression darkened, Tom did neither, somehow in spite of the ludicrousness of the statement he wasn't immediately writing it off as a joke, "Please, Mr. Azrael misplacing your wand is no joking matter. Do you remember where you left it last?"

Azrael closed his eyes and his hands unwittingly come out in front of him as he began to paint a picture using nothing more than words.

"Yes, it's lying on the bedside table in a dark hotel room. The wallpaper is peeling and its floral pattern has almost been forgotten beneath the stains and shadows, there is a stale taste in the air outside in the street automobiles make their way through the crowded streets and people go about their day. The blinds have been drawn and the light floats in on half-forgotten dust." He spoke in a soft tone and yet somehow he managed to command the attention of these school children and this one professor, the giggling stopped and silence pervaded the room as the Austrian city was laid bare before them, "In the shadows a man sits, regarding his own thoughts and plans in silence, his fingers tap a restless beat against the linen of his trousers. Unfamiliar muggle clothing, he hates that he is so comfortable in it, surely something so wretched should tear at his soul. He has grown used to it now, though, and he finds a man can grow used to just about anything..."

He was abruptly cut off by Dumbledore who seemed to have found enough willpower to break whatever enchantment Azrael had been attempting to create, "Is there a point to this story, Mr. Azrael?"

Azrael's eyes opened and his hands lowered back to the table, "You asked if I knew where it was, sir."

"Five points from Hufflepuff for your cheek, Mr. Azrael."

The Hufflepuffs turned to glare at their classmate and an undercurrent of displeasure made its way throughout the room. Azrael appeared not to notice, instead he picked up his needle once again with a sad but almost fond look in his eyes. It was never mentioned that Azrael managed to transfigure a matchstick into a needle faster than any other student than Tom without a wand and for a moment something burned inside of Tom for this other boy but the kinship soon died out.

It was the running gag of Hufflepuff, the case of Azrael's disappearing wand. The professors no longer bothered him with point loss or frowns, some even smiling as they come to realize that Azrael truly did not need a wand to be proficient. A few even come to join the joke along with the students, asking Azrael where his wand was on any particular day. It changed locations quite frequently, Rome, Berlin, Budapest, Leningrad, the travelling wand was making the most out of Europe.

One student said that you'd think after all that travelling around Europe the wand would eventually make its way to England, a joke, but the boy hadn't smiled and said with an air of foreboding, "It will come in its own time."

However in spite of Azrael's wandless abilities he was not considered the best in his classes. He did what was expected of him, performed tasks quickly, but would not rise to the occasion. He had no drive, no overwhelming desire to please either his teachers or himself. He allowed Tom to get ahead and that irked Tom to no end, to know that this other boy had talent, perhaps as much as him and wallowed in mediocrity simply because he would not try.

He was unworthy of Tom's notice, if only because of that small fact, and Tom let him sink into obscurity where he clearly belonged.

Every once in a while though his mind would flash to that image of pale fingers holding a gleaming matchstick to the light overhead and watching as it sparked.

**Author's Note: This is a meandering kind of story, it will meander around to its point in due time, or something. Thanks to readers and reviewers you guys are awesome and probably part of the reason for this fast update, reviews are appreciated.**

**Disclaimers: I don't own Harry Potter**


	3. Chapter 3

The second time he spoke to Azrael was at the end of his first year. He had been idly studying in the library having recently managed to get a pass to the restricted section from an older student and was slowly but surely making his way through the dangerous texts found within. The older student, a Ravenclaw, hadn't questioned the few galleons that Tom had managed to spare for the pass or Tom's burning interest in the section. Too focused on his upcoming NEWTS and a vague desire for pocket change he'd been all too willing to part with the pass.

Most of the books were useless but there were a few he'd found relatively interesting. He was working his way through a book on curses using dragon's blood that seemed very enticing when he thought of what their effects might be on Billy Stubbs when he noticed that someone was standing across from his table. No one usually bothered him, certainly not in the back of the library, so he was caught a little bit by surprise. Frowning he'd closed the book careful to mark his place and looked up to find Azrael staring at him with a puzzled expression.

They said nothing merely eyed each other for a moment, Azrael's expression not changing even under the force of Tom's glare.

Finally Tom asked in as contemptuous a voice as he could manage, "Looking for your wand, Azrael?"

Azrael smiled, amused by the comment as if Tom had made some particularly witty remark, and shook his head, "No, enough people are already looking for it. If I were to get involved things might derail very quickly."

"Ah, I see." Tom said with raised eyebrows, "Well then, perhaps you'd best look into it before the train threatens to turn off the tracks."

The boy seemed to take the casual dismissal as an invitation because instead of leaving he took the chair across from Tom and sat in it. He looked down at Tom's book title and his smile grew a little broader as if nothing fit Tom quite like the various uses of dragon's blood. Tom glared but to no avail and instead turned back to his book determined to ignore the intruder until he would go away on his own.

"I pictured someone very different when I constructed your image in my head."

Tom looked over his book to glare at the boy, "What?"

"You have many faces, Tom Riddle. Faces upon faces, in truth." He said his features strangely soft, looking at Tom with a peculiar fondness, "I had expected only two, the true and the false, but it goes beyond that. You are truly a master of your craft, Mr. Riddle, and you are still so very young."

It was a compliment, of a sort, but in a backhanded manner. The trouble was that given Azrael's frankly bizarre expressions he couldn't tell whether it was a compliment worded badly or an insult.

"My, what a compliment, I've never heard being two-faced put quite in that manner before." Tom drawled.

"I'm just a little surprised; I'm very rarely surprised you know." He said in confidence as if Tom was aware of Azrael's own personality quirks, "So I always make note of things I don't expect."

Tom ignored him turning his attention wholly on his book, dead set upon ignoring any other idiotic thing that came out of Azrael's mouth, one day he was going to hex that obnoxious lunatic halfway to hell, maybe he'd even use curses from dragon's blood. He just had to find the right opportunity.

He expected the boy to loiter there, hopefully in silence, for the rest of the time but Azrael seemed to be done. He stood turning his back on the table before offering Tom one final comment, "When I do find my wand I will try to remind myself that for a moment you weren't a king and not an outcast but simply yourself, who knows, it may even work."

Tom only looked up after his footsteps had receded and he could no longer be seen. Why was it, he wondered, that he felt as if something might have just happened? As if he had been passed over by a terrible storm and only realized it as it left.

Far too melodramatic to belong to an eleven year old, Tom shook his head, next year he'd find the time to make sure this sort of thing never happened again.

* * *

An odd dream left half forgotten by morning.

Azrael and he sitting in a red desert watching an expanding star wavering in the distance as the universe tore away in a red blur. Azrael in his usual black but here it was Tom who was the stranger in a strange land. Tom felt nothing of his usual emotions toward the boy then, they seemed to have drained away, and there was only blankness as they stared into the void spattered with distant stars.

"I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I've watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser Gate. All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain. Time to die." Azrael said in a soft voice his eyes blooming, growing flowers within their green depths, negating the desert they sat upon.

"I'm sorry?" Tom asked because he didn't understand.

"I'm very fond of Blade Runner." The dark haired boy explained, and yet didn't explain, "Oftentimes I feel as if I am merely a replication of humanity."

"I don't understand."

He was beginning to feel frustrated by that fact but Azrael only smiled a smile that Tom had only glimpsed once, in the library, but this one had more feeling in it. The other expression was a shadow, a slight distraction from the boy's usual thoughts. He reached across to Tom and took his hands covering them with his pale fingers and looking in earnest at Tom.

"I have unwittingly destroyed the universe and although there was nothing left but the fires of my own presence I am unnerved and in mourning for the potential that has been lost." The boy motioned to their surroundings with wide arms, "All of this has now been rewritten. It's a dream, Tom Riddle, how can you understand when I myself don't?"

They waited in silence for a few moments as Tom acknowledged his words and allowed himself to let go, if only for a few moments.

"Where are we, anyway?" Tom asked stretching back to look at the glittering sky.

"Well right now you've unexpectedly managed to wander into my brain but I don't think that's what you meant." It was the most sardonic he had ever heard Azrael and oddly enough the most human. The boy then motioned to the expanse before him, "It is a memory, of things that will never happen, something that no longer exists unless I think on it."

(At this point Tom became fairly certain he was dreaming because although Azrael was this cryptic and dramatic in real life he never managed to have this good of special effects for his poetic speeches.)

Tom decided to leave that question be for now and asked his next question instead. It was one that was nagging on him, one he felt he shouldn't have to ask, shouldn't even suspect to ask but one he was compelled to.

"Who are you?"

Azrael cocked his head and observed him, whatever bitterness on his face fading away until only a blank mask remained, his eyes had become sharp as they rarely did and Tom felt as if he was being dissected beneath them. Finally, in a calm voice that carried hidden weight, the Hufflepuff spoke.

"It is said that three brothers bargained with Death after crossing a river. In the version they told their friends they had managed to cheat Death and best him at his own game, years later when two died of more or less unfortunate causes their story gained enough of a moral to be cemented in the minds of children, only fools think they can cheat Death with a bridge. However there is also the version they didn't tell their friends and that one is quite different."

"That explained nothing." Tom stated, "You've regressed from riddles to parables, I find this rather alarming."

With that the smile returned and Azrael looked away from him and stood, clasping his hands behind his back and surveying his cold and deserted kingdom of stardust.

"It doesn't matter anyway, it's only a play after all." He said musingly into the abyss and without turning his head to Tom he continued, "I would appreciate it, Tom Riddle, if you would leave my head now. I realize my occlumency barriers are pathetic but it's considered rude to infiltrate another's memories without an express invitation. Besides, look any further and you might not like what you find."

With a wave of his pale hand the curtains dropped and Tom was left staring at nothing as the universe collapsed on itself and only darkness remained.

(When he did finally wake up confused and bleary eyed and certain that he had more or less dreamed about the damn Hufflepuff of all people, he became determined that one day he was going to make that boy hurt because no one had ever managed to give him such a migrane.)

* * *

It was during the Christmas break of his second year that Tom Riddle found Azrael sitting on the Hogwarts roof.

Things had progressed only slightly since the year before. The tension in his house had lessened somewhat, his housemates still narrowed their eyes in his presence and turned their heads away, but their shame of housing a mudblood was not voiced as frequently or as openly. They had become bored with him as they might a shiny new toy, and those who were not bored, well they had learned their lesson.

The praise and points earned from professors hadn't stopped but merely grown. He continued to impress them with both his skill and his desire to learn. Great things, they said to him, you will accomplish great things Tom Riddle.

He was still awed by the wizarding world, still constantly researching the limits of this new reality, but he was bored. He knew that in order to truly accomplish anything he would first have to graduate from Hogwarts, he was only twelve now, it would be many years until he would be an adult and could truly leave the orphanage behind. He felt as if he had been given a glimpse of freedom but then told he must wait for it, even as he was forced to stare at that vision every day until his skin crawled with wanting.

He hadn't expected dramatic change, hadn't wanted it even, while not content he was resigned to waiting. It was by chance then that he followed Azrael down the rabbit hole, or in this case, onto the roof of the castle.

It was past curfew and Tom was headed back from the library, he'd more or less learned how to avoid prefect's patrols very early on in his Hogwarts career and was now confident in not being caught. He could have left the library sooner and avoided the trouble but the truth was that he hadn't wanted to head back to the Slytherin dormitory yet, there had seemed no point in going back.

Passing through a hallway he caught Azrael rounding a corner. For a moment Azrael stopped, regarded him silently, they hadn't spoken since that day the year before. Tom had thought Azrael might prove himself to be more obnoxious, take his own initiative and try to become friends, but Azrael hadn't approached him since. He looked the same, his hair a tousled mass of black feathers, his eyes that distant green. He only stopped for a moment and then he turned from Tom without a word and disappeared from sight.

It was because Tom had nothing better to do that he followed.

Azrael proved to be abnormally fast, so that Tom had to jog behind him through the corridors wondering if he was going to get caught for this, but somehow almost miraculously they never ran into any prefects. Eventually they made it into the owlery where Azrael promptly strode to the open window and lifted himself up and onto the roof.

Tom stood in the doorway staring at the now empty space in the window with a blank expression. There was no space in his head to wonder why or how Azrael had done it, all he could do was look, and realize that he had followed Azrael to the roof of Hogwarts. What was he even doing up there?

Almost against his will Tom walked over to the window and looked up seeing Azrael's dangling feet over the ledge. Azrael looked down at him with that strangely familiar smile that he hadn't seen since last year, "Good evening, Tom Riddle."

"What are you doing on the roof, idiot?! You'll get yourself killed!"

Azrael looked shocked, as if Tom had suddenly sprouted feathers. His mouth had opened and his eyes had grown wide. Tom for his own part felt his cheeks burn in embarrassment, he hadn't meant that, would normally never say that. It had just come out.

The other boy seemed to have recovered and regained his smile, although this one was a bit more shaky, Tom was abruptly reminded of that day on the train. Azrael had been put at ease not by a cheerful smile but bitter rejection, he had expected Tom to lash out, had wanted it even.

"I'll be fine." He said and then paused, "Is there any particular reason you're here?"

Tom deflected, "What are you even doing up there?!"

Azrael looked up at the sky, at the thousands of stars littered above, and said, "I was feeling nostalgic, so I came to capture starlight." He held a hand out to Tom then, slowly as if not entirely sure he wished to do so, "Would you like to join me?"

Tom resisted the immediate urge to tell him off, there was something in those eyes this time, something dark. As if Azrael, for the first time, was not entirely sure what was going to happen and was taking a leap of faith. Tom wasn't sure how he knew but somehow he recognized that if he spurned Azrael's hand now he would never see it again. Azrael might be distantly polite, might even act as he always had, but he would never again be this genuine.

He took the hand and tried not to look at the distant ground below.

**Author's Note: An explanation on the Blade Runner reference, it's a movie about androids in the future and it's awesome, if you would like more of an explanation I recommend watching the film, reading the IMBD summary, or PMing me. Other than that, Tom and Harry actually talk to each other this chapter, what is this madness? **

**I suppose I should also explain to readers who have asked this is not a spin off/prequel to Lily and the Art of Being Sisyphus, both characters Death are similar and have pretty well the same backgrounds, but there are some differences. To those of you who would like a spin off I have vague plans to make one but after I've gone a bit further in Lily. To those of you who have no idea what I'm talking about continue to ignore this paragraph.**

**Thanks to readers and reviewers you guys are great. Reviews are greatly appreciated. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.**


	4. Chapter 4

Tom would be the first to admit that he knew very little about friendship. He knew what it looked like; whispering chattering people demanding things of each other that they had no right to touch. It looked exhausting, like a constant invasion of privacy that you were somehow supposed to enjoy, all while providing countless reassurances to the other person that you found them interesting and important. There were reasons Tom had never had friends.

In their so far brief friendship, if Tom was willing to call it that, Azrael had done none of this. No, if anything Azrael seemed content to let things lie, to continue to go about his daily business without the slightest consideration to Tom. Ever since that night where they had looked up at the thousands of stars, the light of which dwindled on in the universe even after they had burned themselves into darkness while Azrael motioned with a pale hand to stranger's constellations with foreign names, he had sat next to Tom in Transfiguration but he hadn't sought him out otherwise.

In the end it was Tom who demanded Azrael's presence at the end of Transfiguration, pulling him into an unused classroom so that they could talk.

"I want to learn wandless magic." Tom stated once the door had been closed.

Azrael lounged on top of one of the desks, not even in the chair, and regarded Tom as his fingers tapped against the wood.

(Tom almost wanted to tell him to stop it, irrationally, to just sit in a chair and try to look normal if he could manage that. He wasn't sure what it was about Azrael, whether it was any feature in particular even, but he was always unnerved by him and that fact alone had always bothered Tom.)

"You already know wandless magic." He commented lightly, Tom stiffened wondering if he was referring to his days in the orphanage, but of course he couldn't know anything about that.

"Not like you do."

It was painful to say to look at that boy and be forced to see something worthy. In retrospect that could have been the real reason he had avoided Azrael so long, that terror and bitterness that Azrael was in some way superior; that he was better at magic than Tom was without even trying.

Azrael's head cocked to the side, his expression almost empty, and in his eyes worlds were born and died all in the same moment.

"No," Azrael said softly. He hopped off the desk in a curiously graceful motion landing on both feet and walking towards the door, "We won't do this here, there are eyes everywhere in this castle, follow me."

Soon they were walking through a twisting labyrinth made of familiar hallways, taking turns Tom had never thought of taking, until they were standing before an empty wall. Tom was about to say something about getting lost when suddenly a door appeared and Azrael motioned for him to follow him inside.

They entered what appeared to be a workshop of some kind, in the middle of the room rested what looked like an empty stage, a stool in the center. Surrounding the stage were various labeled bins containing a variety of materials that Tom couldn't recognize. Azrael breathed out a smile at the place looking more at home than Tom had ever seen him in the castle.

After surveying the room Azrael turned to him, "It won't be easy, it's been a while since I've had an apprentice and you are not easy to please. It will be hard and it will be grueling and it must remain a secret. Not of word of this is to reach Albus Dumbledore, do you understand?"

"Why would I ever tell Dumbledore?"

He said it almost as a joke because he could not picture a future in which that happened but Azrael didn't laugh, merely narrowed his eyes and said in a rather cold tone, "Make your eyes like mirrors so that when he looks into them he only sees himself and not your thoughts. Even words unspoken scream at times."

Tom wondered if that was supposed to mean something, "You know Azrael, you should reconsider this wizarding business and become a poet instead because then at least your gibberish might be halfway appreciated."

Azrael surveyed him for a few moments before sighing, "I suppose I'll have to be frank then, if you find this out later and claim I lied to you, well I can only imagine the chaos that would cause. Albus Dumbledore has the ability to read minds."

(This, he would later reflect, was one of the first brutal moments of disenchantment he would have with the wizarding world. It would not be the last.)

"What?"

Azrael seated himself on the stool suddenly looking quite exhausted, "The skill is referred to by wizards as Legillimency and very few wizards are actually capable of it and even then most use it sparingly."

There was a feeling of detachment, of being caught in time, his mind racing this way and that the image of himself in the orphanage that day with Dumbledore, "Are you a head doctor?" rushing before him and the wardrobe on fire. All the while this feeling of panic and the words, "What does he know? What did he see?" pounding in his head like an irregular sickened heartbeat and the terrible fear that Dumbledore knew Tom better than Tom knew himself and Azrael's voice a dull narration over these images in his head.

"The trouble is that it is far from fool proof. There is another mind art called Occlumency which works as protection against Legillimency. A basic occlumens can't necessarily keep someone out but they can notice when someone's snooping where they don't belong and beyond that Occlumency becomes more impressive. A master occlumens, which is even rarer than a master legillimens, can alter their invader's perception of reality and turn them into a lunatic if they so choose."

But in Tom's head there was only Dumbledore in his room in the orphanage and the wardrobe on fire between them.

Finally Tom managed to say in a voice that was distant even from himself, "I think, that I'd almost rather learn that instead."

There was a sigh from Azrael, a slight quirking of the lips as if amused, and a slow shake of his head, "That, I'm afraid, is not my area of expertise. You have a good start already, you have the personality to be able to learn both, and you have experience in at least some mental manipulation. Within a year, if you truly studied it, you would surpass me and where would we be then?"

It was almost as if the room had gone dark and Tom could barely feel himself anymore, like it wasn't Tom talking, but something deeper than Tom some dark cold logical machine that existed within him using his body like a puppet. "I do not want Albus Dumbledore in my head."

"And you think I want him in mine?" Azrael asked with raised eyebrows.

"Then why won't you teach me that instead."

It was not quite a threat, not as blatant as the ones he had given to the orphans, to some of the Slytherins even. It was not, _I will slaughter you like a pig you shithead whoreson_, but the intent was there all the same. Azrael had not stepped too far, had not stepped anywhere at all, but he had something Tom needed and extortion wasn't so different from drastic measures in the end.

Azrael seemed to perceive the unsaid threat because his body tensed and his eyes never left Tom's face. There was no arrogance in there only a cold confidence that saw Tom as nothing more worthy than any other piece of furniture in the room.

"I won't lie and say that anyone can teach you the mind arts, Tom Riddle, but I guarantee that no one will teach you the magic that I practice. To teach Occlumency involves my invading your mind and tearing through each and every one of your memories until I practically am Tom Riddle myself. It would be the same with any teacher although they would not be so upfront with what it would involve. If you want your thoughts to remain private I suggest you learn it from a book instead, there should be something in the restricted section, since you so conveniently have a pass."

A book suddenly materialized in the room, Azrael stood and carefully made his way over to where it rested on the floor, he surveyed it quietly and then threw it at Tom. "This should help. Now, Tom, do you still want to learn wandless magic or do you want to stand there and attempt to intimidate me?"

Tom didn't look at the book even as he caught it but kept staring at Azrael who coolly stared back.

(Picking and choosing your battles was not the same as losing but it still burned in his throat.)

"The wandless magic."

And just like that it was as if the moment was forgotten and Azrael wore that stupid childlike grin on his face. "Very good, we'd best get started then."

* * *

Tom's first magic lesson with master Azrael the Hufflepuff.

"A tree falls in the woods and no one is around to hear it, what sound does it make?"

Tom told to sit in the center of the room and contemplate Azrael's words could only stare at the boy and blink a few times trying to process the phrase and see if it actually meant anything at all. He routinely felt around Azrael as if there was some fuse short in the other's brain and that he had no real language processing ability and rather talked like an overly poetic stroke victim.

They were in the same room but it had taken on a different appearance this time. It was now filled with every item imaginable looking like the place where lost student items went to die in abandonment. There were books, broom sticks, cabinets, picture frames, and every other useless broken thing heaped in some pile or another waiting for someone to grab it. Upon entering the room Tom had eyed the book collection and wondered if he might find something useful in one of them, forgotten things that they were.

"I assume it makes the same sound all trees make when they fall." Tom said slowly to which Azrael smiled.

"You never were one for philosophy, Tom Riddle." Azrael said with a smile before walking away from Tom and towards a stack of broomsticks leaning against a wall in the corner, "Unfortunately for you a lot of wandless magic is based on concepts that make reality a somewhat fuzzier contraption than you picture it, think harder and answer me in half an hour."

"So I'm supposed to picture trees, for a half hour." Tom said as he watched Azrael inspect each broom with a critical eye moving from one to the next with decisiveness that he rarely exuded in class.

"The trees are irrelevant, you could picture sheep if you so desired, it's all in the concept."

Azrael seemed content to ignore Tom and wandered further into the stacks of, well Tom could only refer to the items as things, searching for some random object that in no way should have been more interesting than Tom. If all these lessons were going to be like this, Tom thought to himself, then Tom was going to remove Azrael's kneecaps for making him waste his time.

"I thought the concept was the tree falling in the woods."

He couldn't see Azrael, the boy having wandered out of sight in the room, but he heard the sigh of exasperation, "Really, do you have no aptitude for critical thinking?"

It was at that point Tom managed his first bout of wandless magic for the day the pile Azrael was searching through collapsed on top of the Hufflepuff. Still sitting crosslegged Tom managed his first smile at the sounds of Azrael's fruitless struggles, "Well, look at that, progress."

(Later after Azrael managed to clamber out of the pile of forgotten school equipment to make his rumpled way over to Tom who just smiled and waited patiently Azrael had concluded on the lesson, "Perhaps I need to think of a different approach.")

* * *

It wasn't as if Tom perceived Dumbledore in a new light after Azrael's rather startling revelation. He had always mistrusted Dumbledore, felt he had been misjudged by the man, and if anything Azrael's words had just confirmed all the suspicions he'd ever had and more. Azrael had assured him that Dumbledore probably hadn't ever read his mind; that he would no doubt consider it immoral to invade the mind of a child, but Tom found that even the possibility of Dumbledore in his head was more than he could stand.

He learned Occlumency as quickly as he possibly could and began to scrutinize Dumbledore more than he had ever bothered to before. In the beginning Dumbledore was a nuisance, always judging and condemning Tom for daring to be better than everyone else, now he was becoming a threat.

(Perhaps what was most insulting was not that Dumbledore was a threat to him but that he was not a threat to Dumbledore, at least not yet, but one day he would be and he would make sure the old bastard knew it too.)

What he ended up noting rather surprised him and showed him just how little he had been paying attention. Dumbledore disliked Azrael more than he did Tom Riddle. He had known Dumbledore disliked Azrael, had never given him house points for the perfect practical work done without a wand, but he hadn't realized that this passing over of Azrael's abilities extended into dislike. When Dumbledore looked at Tom his eyes fell a little flat giving him a perpetually disappointed look but when they turned to Azrael they were cold and just a bit harder. He felt he had figured Tom out but he wasn't sure what to make of Azrael and that clearly bothered him.

Azrael never said anything about it, just took it in that infernal stride of his, and let everything wash over him as if it never mattered in the first place. Tom was insulted by proxy.

"How can you stand it?"

They were sitting cross legged on the floor, Azrael tinkering with some metal contraption, and Tom told to sit there and find his inner self, whatever that might mean. Azrael's compulsion to speak only in poetry often left Tom a little vague on the details until he simply had to sit there and wait for some more mundane clarification.

(He'd probably have abandoned this idea altogether if it weren't for the fact that there were results, levitating objects wandlessly had become much easier, as had other wandless physical acts but even so the temptation to leave at times was almost more than he could handle.)

At the question Azrael's eyes left the device and turned to Tom's, "Stand what, exactly?"

"The professors here don't even look at your work; they don't even look at you. Your practical work is always perfect and yet you have never earned a single house point. Doesn't it bother you?"

Azrael smiled slightly, "I have no desire for such materialistic things as house points."

Tom failed to point out that house points were not the best example of materialism, Azrael had odd opinions regarding such things, "So you would let them pass you over, as if you were nothing?"

He looked somewhat solemn then, taking Tom's words and categorizing them in his mind, until he finally said, "I will never be nothing. I may be cast aside, forgotten, and even left unnamed but I will never be nothing. I gamble with eternity, Tom, and the odds are more in my favor than in theirs, if it is a game at all that we play. They will see me again one day, even if they do not expect it. Besides, I'm not particularly impressed by my work either."

He doubted Azrael realized how insulting that statement was to Tom, whose work was on par if not only slightly better than his, to have it dismissed for nothing with a wave of his hand. He must have caught sight of Tom's anger because a childish, almost mischievous, smile graced his fine features, "You are remarkably sensitive."

"What, then, would you consider impressive?" Tom asked. It was not meant as a serious question, a joking remark, bitterly spat out in a moment of frustration but nothing more. It held no true weight and yet for Azrael it seemed as if he had asked the world.

Azrael grew still and his eyes burned and said in the voice of prophets, "I have seen many great and terrible things but do keep in mind that great things can often be quite terrible."

You will accomplish great things, the hat had said, sometimes it was more than unnerving the way Azrael unconsciously brought up these instances from his life. The boy's words came off like a threat, not one directly to Tom himself, but even so there was warning in his eyes.

"I see." Tom said and even to himself the words sounded distant as this moment was stored once again in his mind, tucked away for safe keeping. He must have hit a nerve because Azrael didn't grin as he usually did when Tom was discomfited but rather he turned back to his work without a word.

"What are you building, anyway?" Tom asked staring at the glinting metal.

"A variety of things." Azrael his voice without inflection, "They may prove important later."

"Care to be more specific?"

"Hm, I suppose I could be." Azrael said and finally looked up from his the intricate metal gears which had begun to resemble clockwork, "I doubt you'd care about the specifics, as you call it, but a summary is decent enough. It's insurance."

It was at this point, Tom would later reflect, that the conversation took a strange turn. He was no stranger to having baffling conversations with Azrael that turned either into a philosophical madhouse or a riddle contest but this was different than that. There were times when Azrael became focused, he lost his distant gaze, and in those moments his eyes became daggers and his words became uncharacteristically blunt.

They had been doing these lessons for some time now and as Azrael had told him it was frustrating. Tom so far hadn't gone through exactly a wide range of emotions, there'd been a few moments of triumph and even more of severely strained patience and even raging fits, but he'd seen very little of Azrael's personality. In spite of Azrael's moods he could put on quite the poker face, his face contorted into some emotion that never reached his eyes, it was very rare for those masks to drop and even then Tom had never seen them drop entirely. That day, for seemingly no reason, the mask dropped a fraction of an inch.

"Insurance?" He asked with raised eyebrows.

"In a sense." Azrael said implying that it was anything but mere insurance, "I've taken quite a gamble recently and I'm not certain I'll have an agreeable outcome yet."

Tom didn't have to ask this time Azrael answered the question for him, "I decided to teach you magic and that has the potential to be a very dangerous decision on my part. Of course, this assumes my indifference will fade in time, which seems rather unlikely at this point."

Azrael made a vague motion with his hand and abruptly a sense of levity returned to the conversation a small smile drifting to his lips, "No need to worry about that though, you still have a long way to go before you can get anywhere."

Somehow, Tom thought wryly to himself, those words were not at all reassuring.

**Author's Note: So Tom has a friend, kind of sort of, but it still counts. Yay Tom. Thanks for the reading as well as the reviews, they are great, and probably part of the reason this chapter came out so soon. That and I have a lot of this written already, which almost never happens for me, I usually write as I go and see where the wind takes me. Reviews are appreciated greatly. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.**


	5. Chapter 5

He didn't ask anything personal about Azrael until the end of the year as the train to London was pulling out of the station.

He had not bothered to ask the headmaster that year if he could stay at the school, he'd already received his answer his first, and every time he thought about the orphanage he couldn't help but resent headmaster Dippet. He had no reason to return to muggle London and they knew it, he didn't demand much, he'd work in Hogsmede if he had to if only they just let him stay. There had been no question, no room even to beg, sent home no exceptions.

As he stared out the window watching as Scotland rolled past he thought about all his favorite people, Billy Stubbs, Dennis, Amy, how all of them would be there waiting for him just like old times. The first year had been like that, he didn't know what he had expected to change, they thought he went to some special gifted school they didn't know what gifts it was for. They'd still been afraid, the ones with sense at any rate and he'd reminded the others soon enough, he'd made sure to leave quite the impression over the years but that couldn't erase the gray shadow that muggle culture lent everything it touched. None of the books he read, the daydreamed plans, nothing could distract him from the fact that he was in some ways trapped in the muggle world like a bird who had only had a taste of the free sky before being placed back in the cage.

He wasn't sure why he thought about Azrael right then, perhaps he was attempting to distract himself from dark thoughts of the looming summer or perhaps he simply caught sight of the Hufflepuff's reflection in the glass whatever it was he turned from the window to look at Azrael.

Tom had always had a talent for knowing things about people, in many ways it was his business, from the very beginning it had paid to be informed of the workings of those around him. Things that seemed unimportant, the pattern of movement about Billy's rabbit, Dennis' favorite toy, these things had come into play in spite of their seeming irrelevance so Tom did pay attention to his peers even as he disregarded them. He knew Abraxas Malfoy's favorite quidditch team was secretly the Chuddly Cannons, he knew that moaning Myrtle had tried seven different products and spells on her hair and each had failed, he knew that Dorea Black and Charlus Potter were engaged to be married in spite of the Blacks disregard for Potter light based politics. Most of this was easy to find out, people loved talking about themselves, but some of it took some active digging on Tom's part.

He knew more about the Hufflepuff Azrael than anyone in the school but little beyond that. He knew his general habits, his demented manner of speech, and a few of his hobbies but that was about it.

He recognized now, having been associated with Azrael for long enough, that he had a bit of an issue when it came to dealing with the boy. His pride became needlessly involved whenever Azrael was even in the room, he didn't even have to open his mouth and Tom would immediately find himself irritable and somewhat irrational. It could have been Azrael's inexplicable giftedness when it came to magic but Tom suspected it had more to do with Azrael's general personality, that calm unflappability where he stepped into a room and you knew instantly that he could not be moved, bought, or otherwise persuaded. The fact that he spoke like an exceptionally bad poet didn't help matters.

At the moment Azrael was sitting cross-legged with his eyes closed looking like he was contemplating the meaning of life or something else equally ridiculous. Once again that creeping urge to ignore him or otherwise cut him down made its way into his head, his eyebrows twitched as he attempted to remain impassive, he never had been good at denying temptation.

"Where do you live?"

Azrael started slightly at the demanding tone of Tom's voice and his eyes opened, "Hm?"

"You can't live in England." Tom stated with finality causing Azrael's lips to quirk slightly as he found something distantly funny, "So where do you come from?"

"Believe it or not for quite some time I was English." Azrael said with a shrug before sighing and continuing, "But that was a while ago and to be honest I've never really liked England all that much, I was never myself when I was English."

"That didn't answer the question." Tom stated blandly.

Again, Azrael shrugged and lifted his hands slightly as if to convey that these were the answers he was going to give no more and no less, "England I suppose, that seems easiest in a way."

(Tom wondered for a few moments how it was that he had allowed himself to become even vague acquaintances with Azrael.)

"Right, easiest. Well, where exactly in England is it _easiest_ for you to stay?"

"London probably."

He wondered if he should inform Azrael that Wool's Ophanage was conveniently located in London as well. He could, it might be interesting, certainly more interesting than the previous summer had been. Azrael had hinted during some of the lessons, when pestered enough by Tom, that he knew several glaring loopholes in the trace something Tom very much wished to find out.

It was tempting, in its own way, but there were consequences to that sort of decision.

If Azrael caught a glimpse of Tom in the orphanage then Tom would never be able to take that impression back. It would be there forever, imprinted in his brain, Tom the mudblood orphan living in squalor and poverty with the Billy Stubbs of the world. He would see that, in some ways, every word out of the elite purebloods' mouths was justified.

So Tom didn't extend to Azrael an invitation and from the look on Azrael's face it didn't seem as if he had expected one. Sometimes Azrael was so perceptive it was uncanny.

"You're last name, it isn't English." Tom commented instead.

"No, it isn't really." Azrael agreed, "It isn't really my name though."

"What do you mean it isn't your name?" Tom asked sharply thinking back to Dumbledore's reading of the list, the very first name that came out, _Azrael_. "I was there for the sorting ceremony you know, I heard Dumbledore say it quite clearly."

"Oh, yes, that." Azrael said with a sigh, "Azrael is really more of an idea than anything else and while it's true that I'm called it occasionally I've also been called a lot of other things as well. I think the school had to pick something, and well, some of my epithets are softer than others Azrael being one of them. At the end of the day I don't think I have a name, not in the human sense at least."

Tom pondered that for a moment remembering his introduction to Azrael, _I suppose you may call me whatever you like, I have no real preference and you do have a thing for names_, and wondered if he was supposed to make anything of it. He said he knew nothing personal about Azrael and he felt this was true but sometimes he felt that he caught glimpses of Azrael, left in cryptic statements that seemed like nonsense, but he could never tell if he was making sense of them or if they were simply meaningless.

"And you think I have an ego, epithets, really Azrael. Even I don't claim to have titles, don't you think that's a bit low?"

This won one of Azrael's childlike grins that he wore whenever Tom had said anything unintentionally amusing, it seemed to be one of his more unintentionally witty moments because Azrael actually began to laugh before breaking down in hysterics leaving Tom sitting on the bench staring at him with a blank look on his face.

"See, Azrael," Tom said in the midst of the Hufflepuff's hysteria, "This is why you have no friends."

(Over the summer he would exchange several letters with Azrael, whose location he was never quite clear on, and he would discover to his surprise that Azrael was just as if not more so unintelligible in writing as he was in person. Still it was better than anything the muggle orphans had to offer.)

* * *

Tom had learned not to associate himself with muggles, he never had in the beginning after all, he had always known he was different. He had thought now that he was a wizard that it would be easy to leave, that he would only have to endure a few summers of the orphanage but then he would be gone, that the muggles couldn't touch him anymore. That was the extent of their reach, the extent of the tainting of the word mudblood on him, but mudblood ran deeper than skin. It seemed that it stretched into his very bones until even he could not escape it.

War had been declared on Germany in the spring of his second year. He hadn't paid much mind as German troops marched on Poland as the news had barely managed to even make the Prophet. It was a small section, not even on the front page, Muggle Britain declares war on Germany. He'd remembered sitting there and thinking back on the last war, the Great War, and he wondered if that had even made the papers. It had seemed so distant though, so casual and unimportant, an afterthought really.

When Tom told Azrael, later that week in the Room of Requirement, the boy had stilled and the room seemed to go dark before light reasserted itself and a more tired looking Azrael remained. Azrael had turned to Tom with a more decisive look on his face than usual and said, "We'll work on warding."

For weeks they had abandoned previous exercises, thankfully as Tom never seemed to get anywhere with them, and instead Tom was given rushed lessons on complex warding systems. Unlike Azrael's usual method of building from the ground up these were poured into his head without the means of understanding them only the instruction that he know them and he know them well. After Tom had managed to produce satisfactory results they dropped the topic and returned to their usual cryptic ridiculousness that somehow was supposed to equate into wandless magic without mentioning why they'd taken that little detour.

In September of 1940, his third year, the bombings on London began and they did not stop until May. At the time though the end of the year had been approaching and Tom was left wondering if the orphanage would still be there when he arrived and if it was what would happen if they were bombed. Somehow, Azrael had known the moment the war had been mentioned, that Tom would need to be able to create wards strong enough to shield from bombs and be able to make them fast and make them long lasting.

Once again, as he had done in his first year, he asked if he could stay swallowing his pride and appealing to what he hoped was Dippet's good reason. He wasn't like Myrtle Stewart or any other muggle born student, should London continue to be bombed then he would have nowhere to go, he was an orphan who had nothing.

The headmaster had just smiled at him, shook his head, and said that no exceptions could be made but he was terribly sorry about it all. In that moment Tom realized that he wasn't truly divorced from the muggle world, somehow, in spite of being a wizard and being superior to most other wizards he was still cast aside as if he was nothing. They pretended to care for their own but would it really be so terrible for these people if Tom ceased to exist in the three months he wasn't at the school? Would they care for more than a few moments where they mourned his lost potential?

He had never had great faith in humanity but whatever faith he had in wizards had shattered that day when he walked down the spiraling steps of the headmaster's office his face a cold mask as his emotions boiled beneath.

He had always suspected that at the end of the day there would only be Tom Riddle but it was only then that he really knew.

**Author's Note: Because World War II is very important folks. Thanks for reading and the reviews everyone, they're awesome, and reviews are appreciated. In fact I actually just instated a new review policy that I lifted from another author, now for every 100th review I'll PM that reviewer and see if they have a prompt for a gift fic they'd like done, preferably something in the same universe as this fic. So, that's exciting? **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter**


	6. Chapter 6

The first time he professed a fraction of his ambitions was in Divination while discussing the nature of tea and reality. One would think that in a setting like that the conversation would have been more meaningful but the truth was that at that point in his life there was not much to tell. There had been nothing solid in his mind, just a vague desire to not just get out, but to transcend. Tom Riddle was no longer good enough, he had to be something else, something more than Tom Riddle ever could be. At the age of thirteen these were only ideas, nothing more than summer daydreams, and thus even he didn't take them too seriously at the time. No, it wouldn't be until after his third year that he would begin to truly think on them as something more than hazy visions.

Still, he did have one thing set, Voldemort. This new personage, this man who was purely a wizard, would be called Voldemort.

So it was then that a newly determined Tom Riddle sat across from the Hufflepuff Azrael in a classroom cluttered with tea cups, crystal balls, and tarot cards. Azrael for his own part was the same as Azrael ever was.

Azrael was prone to certain moods. It was not evident to those he didn't regularly converse with but sit at the same table with him for almost a year and it became very clear. Some Tom tolerated more than others but what he found to be one of the worst were not Azrael's periods of depression but rather his childish displays whenever he got a little too bored or irritated. It was almost embarrassing to be sitting in the same room as him let alone at the same table.

Over the summer of their second year, while exchanging letters, Tom had managed to convince Azrael to take the same electives as him in the next school year. There had been no objections to Ancient Runes or Arithmancy but Azrael had been rather reluctant to take Divination. It was generally hard to get any true emotion from Azrael's letters but even through ink Tom could sense Azrael's rather uncharacteristic hesitation. Even after he had accepted and agreed to do it he still looked somewhat unsure of his decision.

As it turned out when uncomfortable Azrael would ultimately attempt to take it out on Tom by being as obnoxious as possible.

"I see me, dying in a very grizzly manner, torn apart by a very large dog that looks something like the Grim." Azrael passed Tom the cup with a sense of authority so that Tom could see for himself the mangled limbs in the tea leaves.

"That's rather specific, you must have quite the gift for divination." Tom said staring at the green flecks at the bottom of the tea cup which resembled, in Tom's opinion, an amorphous blob rather than a dog. Although, if it was a particularly vicious dog, then perhaps those were the remains of the victim after it was done, still that was quite a stretch for tea.

Azrael shrugged uncomfortably with a somewhat sheepish expression on his face, "Oh well, I suppose I'm cheating a little bit."

Tom's eyebrows raised and inspected the cup again, "And how exactly did you manage to cheat tea, Azrael?"

"To be honest I'm not really sure I believe in this telling the future business. I imagine our place in the present moment to be a particle of light in a great infinite star, all around us the possibilities of our past and future choices stretch, until all eventualities are eventual. It's true that some events are more probable than others but destiny is such a human invention at the end of the day." Azrael again shrugged and took back the tea with a sigh inspecting the cup and eyeing the kettle with interest, probably debating whether he wanted to pour himself some tea and ruin the lovely image of himself getting eaten by wild dogs.

"You know I always assumed I would see something more morbid than you but mine looks like a flower and by the way that still doesn't explain how you cheated although your words were very pretty." Tom said looking at his own tea cup, to tell the truth it looked like any shape, he had a feeling that he wasn't artistically inclined enough to take the reading of tea leaves seriously he hoped that other units would be more reliable.

Azrael didn't smirk, it really wasn't his style, but he did give cheery grins but that was almost more obnoxious.

"Oh my future is always death."

Tom placed down his tea cup warily looking at Azrael and wondering how seriously he should take that statement. He looked across the room, the professor hadn't quite made it over to them yet and seemed to be taking his time explaining the art of tea leaves to another pair of students. (Not that the professor would really care; professors tended to be a little unnerved by Azrael and generally spent as little time around him as possible. This particular professor had quite a strong reaction, as they were walking in, Azrael with a grim look on his face that spoke volumes about his unwillingness to take the class the professor had proclaimed it was the apocalypse. Azrael's only response was that the man, despite everything, apparently wasn't a fraud.)

"Is that so?"

Azrael inclined his head slightly staring at the kettle, "I don't believe humans have a destiny however sometimes we do have roles to play; death is mine, it always has been, even when I pretended it wasn't. Death is my gift."

"Roles, Azrael, I wonder if we don't all have some role to play, some vague badly defined destiny handed to us." He mused looking at the center of his tea cup but thinking of the sorting hat sitting on his head, great things it had said, and when exactly could great things begin and where did they start?

"Like what?"

"Oh, I don't know, something more…" He set the tea cup down and instead observed the boy sitting across from him, he looked the same as ever, perhaps slightly taller than the year before, a little thinner and sharper but with the same eyes. A mudblood couldn't be reflected there, he couldn't see it, "I can't be the same as Moaning Myrtle, Azrael. I have to do something more, something great."

He must have said something then, some trigger that set Azrael on edge, he said them every now and again some small unidentifiable reminder that made the Hufflepuff's fingers twitch and his eyes grow wide in horrified recognition. This time though it wasn't as abrupt as others, it wasn't as cold; it was still Tom reflected in those eyes instead of a faceless stranger.

They sat in silence for a few moments, Azrael appearing to think something over deeply, looking not only pensive but somewhat sad as well. When he did speak it was somewhat distantly, dully, without any real thought behind it, "Greatness is a transitory experience. It is never consistent. It depends in part upon the myth-making imagination of humankind. The person who experiences greatness must have a feeling for the myth he is in. He must reflect what is projected upon him. And he must have a strong sense of the sardonic. This is what uncouples him from belief in his own pretensions. The sardonic is all that permits him to move within himself. Without this quality, even occasional greatness will destroy a man."

It was not said like a warning, or any kind of omen, it was as if Azrael had already resigned himself to the fact that Tom would not listen. A year before he would have scathingly replied back to the Hufflepuff, telling him to mind his own business, at this point he just felt tired and the tiniest glimmer of something that could be fondness.

"That one doesn't sound like one of yours; it made far too much sense." Tom commented drily.

"It's not." Azrael replied a little more life coming back into his eyes, "It's from a book that may or may not be written. Great, for me, is a very loaded word. I'd prefer it if you used a different one. Extraordinary might be better."

"Then I shall be extraordinary." He picked up his own tea cup and held it before Azrael's eyes, "See, even the tea agrees."

Azrael's eyebrows raised slightly, as if surprised by the sudden bout of optimism and determination, but it had been a particularly long summer and Tom felt he was entitled to a vision or two.

"Really?" Azrael asked, "I thought you saw flowers."

But of course Azrael, being in one of his moods, had to go out of his way to spoil any moment. It was almost expected at this point.

"I've changed my mind, I also see you dying in a rather horrific manner, it looks like your head's just been impaled on a spike. So, Azrael, let's make a bet. Dog or beheading? Your choice."

Azrael appeared to put great thought into weighing his options finally he said, "Dog first then beheading."

* * *

A collection of facts about the Hufflepuff Azrael.

In days off he enjoyed spending time with thestrals but he never said the name of the corpse he had seen.

He never received letters and when asked if he had any family he looked distantly sorrowful and often refused to answer.

He had an eye for mischief that was not evident at first, but when presented with Hogsmede's joke shop his eyes had glittered with childish delight, an expression that almost made Azrael appear like a child to Tom's surprised eyes.

He claimed Jörmungadr slept beneath Hogwarts in the Chamber of Secrets and that when woken it would prove to be both hungry and quite racist.

He had no plans for exiting Hogwarts but merely expected to drift into the Scottish highlands after Graduation and from there into the stars themselves. Whenever he spoke of these plans his pale hands would wander upwards like birds to mark a path to the red eye called Mars.

He did not believe in the sorting system and thus rarely identified himself as being a Hufflepuff. He said he had problems on deciding a human's personality at the limiting age of eleven without experience or time to judge them by. He also said that life rarely gives us only four paths to choose from when we are lost in the woods.

He said that he was not a pureblood, that he had grown up with muggles and had expected Tom to believe him only because of the fierce insistence in his eyes.

Hogwarts was barely a place to him, he existed within it but it could have been replaced by any other magical school, any other city even and he would have remained the same. He was untouchable in the all the ways Tom wished to be and yet that he could not help but find unnerving.

He believed in physics almost more than he did magic if one were to glance at his notes for most classes, they would find formulas and theories, rather than anything the professor had bothered saying.

Despite being perhaps the most or second most magically gifted student in their class his true talent lied in invention a realm Tom only glimpsed when they were in the Room of Requirements but something he appreciated when Azrael was in the mood to divulge secrets.

He was failing History of Magic solely because he never actually went to class, he had a theory that Professor Binns had secretly died years before and was now just a ghost forever monologuing the history of the Goblin wars that had taken place in the 19th century. Tom didn't fault him, History of Magic was exceedingly dull, but he could have at least made some attempt to pass the class.

At the end of Tom's third year, when he was heading back into a bomb-riddled city, unsure of his prospects Azrael had said in respect to his wizarding peers, "They are human too, in time, they will also know the face of war."

* * *

He only ever attended one meeting of the Slug Club.

It had started off well enough, he'd received his invitation handwritten by a grinning Slughorn during Potions the week before, and had been told by his head of house that it was the place to be if you wanted to know the right people.

It was left unsaid that the fourteen year old Tom Riddle, being an impoverished mudblood orphan, desperately needed to know the _right _people.

With that golden ticket he could join the ranks of his favorite peers, Abraxas Malfoy, the Black siblings, Charlus Potter, and every other pureblood heir he could name and maybe the token quidditch star just to cover all the bases.

His relationship with his housemates had settled over the years into something quite monotonous. His housemates in a way had outgrown him, he was no longer a novelty, it had been four years after all there were other things to talk about besides the know-it-all mudblood who dared to stain their carpets with his dirty footprints. Girls had become the main topic of conversation and frequently Tom would walk through the common room only to overhear the near weekly rating of the Hogwarts selection with Dorea Black standing near unchallenged at the top and the shrieking harpy Walburga resting safely at the bottom.

Still, not everyone got an invitation to the Slug Club, so he was hardly going to turn down the first one.

That night Azrael threw an impromptu celebration to congratulate him on his, "golden opportunity to ingratiate himself with the future Wizengamot and build the foundations for his standing army."

They had walked into the Room of Requirement which redecorated itself into something that resembled a very expensive restaurant complete with crystal wine glasses and chandeliers.

"Standing army, Azrael, I'm not sure what future you think I have planned for myself but there's hardly an army involved." Tom had said looking around the room somewhat stunned thinking, if only to himself, that he had never been in a place that made him feel this poor.

But Azrael was grinning and walking past him towards the table shaking out his hands, "Now the food will be tricky, it always is, bending the laws like this but…" He paused before the table, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, his pale hands rising slightly and for a moment there was only the feeling of power sweeping through the room and then there was cake. "I suppose this is one of the benefits of being me."

Tom stared at the cake with dubiously raised eyebrows, he didn't doubt it being real, but at the same time he really wanted to ask if Azrael had broken one of the laws of magic for cake or if he was just in one of those moods again.

"Not that I don't appreciate the cake, Azrael," Tom said taking one of the seats at the table and staring at the white frosting and trying to think about the last time he had ever even eaten cake, "But really, we've known I was going to be invited to the Slug Club for years, Slughorn himself assured me multiple times, for years really."

Azrael plopped into the seat across from him and began dividing the cake taking a rather large slice for himself, "It would be a rather odd reality if you somehow hadn't been invited. We can all relax, the universe is at peace, Tom Riddle has been invited to the Slug Club where he will display the patience of God as he seeks to turn the world on its head."

If he had the patience of God he wouldn't feel like throwing text books at Azrael's head whenever he got like this. Patience was hardly one of his virtues, Azrael should have known that from all the damned wandless lessons, but sometimes he felt like Azrael didn't really see him at all but rather saw some template that he had initially created for Tom. It was accurate enough that for the most part, Tom fit neatly in the checked boxes, but sometimes he strayed from those unsaid expectations and that always would disturb Azrael.

"Surely it won't be that insufferable, besides it's not as if you'll be going." Tom muttered getting himself a thin slice of cake with a sigh.

That weekend he found himself seated between Abraxas Malfoy and Orion Black as they each listened to Slughorn's rendition of the who's who and the important connections that could be made in one's youth. Before him on the table Tom counted at least six different sets of silverware for each person, the forks displayed in an arrange of shapes and sizes that Tom hadn't known existed previously. In somewhat worn second hand dress robes he played the role of the shabby scholarship student quite well looking quite impoverished amongst his wealthy peers.

He couldn't help but feel, that if this were truly a measure of talent instead of nepotism, that there was one seat missing at the table. Then again, at this point it was almost a given that the Hufflepuff Azrael was overlooked by each and every member of the Hogwarts faculty, only Tom had ever truly recognized his talents.

His only real thought during the whole thing was not a grand strategy on how to further his standing in wizard society but instead the single phrase repeated over and over again. I don't belong here.

"It's Tom, right?" Tom looked up during the socializing session after the dinner to find Charlus Potter staring at him. Slughorn was currently in what looked to be like a philosophical debate with Malfoy, which probably meant that Malfoy was spouting off the usual pureblood Slytherin ideology and Slughorn was debating with more recent research while trying to give the conversation an academic tone rather than a political one.

Charlus Potter was a few years older than him and that fact combined with the fact that he was a Gryffindor meant that Tom had never spoken with him before. He'd known of him but beyond that the only thing he'd noted was the strange likeness he had to Azrael at times.

"Ah, yes, Tom Riddle." Tom replied focusing on the older boy.

"So, first Slug Club meeting, eh? It's great that you're here, you know with you being… Well usually you find only the really old families at this thing, you know?"

It was almost funny, how politically correct Potter was attempting to be. The Potters were known to be one of the more progressive older families, light as it was called in the wizarding world, but even so it was hard to let go of some of those older traditions. Looking at Charlus Potter he couldn't help but remember that he was engaged to Dorea Black so surely they hadn't strayed that far from tradition.

Tom smiled at him thinly, "Yes, I had noticed, I guess I'm just special like that."

"Yeah, still, what do you think of the party?" Potter asked with strained enthusiasm trying to force the conversation.

"It's alright, very educational, I never knew so many forks could exist for so many different purposes."

That caused a startled laugh out of Potter, he probably hadn't expected Tom to have a sense of humor, maybe he'd come over because he'd taken pity as no one else was currently talking to him at the moment. His Slytherin friends had scattered into their own corner without a moment's thought so Tom must have looked fairly pathetic standing by himself.

"Right, so you're a fourth year though, Merlin that was a good year. Before the OWLS and the NEWTS set in, ugh, enjoy it while you can Tom." The Gryffindor mock shuddered at the thought of the horrific tests he was taking and to Tom's surprised Tom even smiled a bit at it.

"I'll try."

If he had left at that moment, or if things had remained as they were, then Tom thought he might have gone back. However as they stood there in companionable silence during the pause, thinking of something to say, Potter brought up a topic he really shouldn't have.

It was a surprise though, even to Tom himself, because he never imagined that he'd be so sensitive when it came to the Hufflepuff Azrael.

"You're friends with that weird kid, that Hufflepuff, what's his name something foreign with an 'A'…" Potter drifted off searching through the name in his memory.

"Azrael." Tom supplied for him, his voice sounding flat even to his own ears.

"Yeah, the kid without a wand, or the travelling wand or whatever, Azrael." Potter exclaimed having located the Hufflepuff in his memory, "What's he like, I hear he's a genius at wandless magic but absolutely terrible at everything else."

To an outside observer this might seem like the case, practical work Azrael had no equal, even Tom's work was second best to his. Always, without exception this was the case. However he often failed the theoretical work either by refusing to do the assignments claiming they were a waste of his time or quoting muggle physicists and citing them as references rather than any book out of the Hogwarts library.

"You're just being lazy." Tom had been telling him for years only for Azrael to brush him off with a wave of his hand, "Laziness is hardly one of my problems."

Still, for Tom to say these things was fine, Tom knew Azrael but Potter and everyone else didn't. They barely knew his name, what right did they have to judge the caliber of his work on mere glimpses?

"He's smarter than people give him credit for, not just with the wandless magic either." Tom stated with a shrug that was attempting not to look stiff.

"Okay I guess, he's pretty famous though, you know for a fourth year. He's pretty… well, you know." Potter shrugged with a careless smile, as if to fill in the blank with smile, that Azrael was whatever adjective you could fill into that blank.

"No, I don't know."

"…Weird." Again Potter shrugged, "Not that weird is a bad thing, just, there's a lot of interesting rumors floating about with that kid. I'm sure you've heard some of them."

"No, I haven't, I think I'd like to hear them."

Tom knew he sounded like he'd want to hear anything but what Potter wanted to say but in spite of the dullness of his tone and the flat expression in his eyes Potter must have felt assured enough to go on and awkwardly reiterate what the rumor mill had been spouting for years. During the entire time Tom marveled at the failure in his acting ability, where was his cheerful student persona, the face he offered each professor after earning each and every house point. Where was that inherently false smile?

When had insulting Azrael become the same as insulting Tom himself?

When Potter finally finished Tom forced his lips into an attempt at a smile that usually came so easily, "Thanks, Potter, it was good meeting you."

"Yeah, good meeting you too, Tom. I hope I see you next meeting, it's nice to see some new faces around here, you know."

"Yes, I suppose it is."

**Author's Notes: And the change in the timeline finally begins to take effect, slowly but surely, more to come more is always to come. Thanks to readers and reviewers, you guys are awesome. Reviews are much appreciated.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter**


	7. Chapter 7

Before his fifth year life had seemed monochromatic, there were moments here and there that stood out, but for the most part it was a blur of gray memories. A constant build up to some defining moment he had yet to reach, a moment he had only dimly named for himself, Lord Voldemort and yet he had no idea what shape it would take.

The year came rolling in like a hurricane and it would not stop until the summer had passed.

The first event was the startling and almost horrifying realization that he was attracted to his only friend the Hufflepuff Azrael. He had always found Azrael interesting looking but he would not refer to the boy as particularly attractive. He had very striking features, his eyes, his hair, his pale skin, but his personality and the way he held himself negated any of the overall aesthetics.

Not that he'd paid attention to anyone's overall aesthetics before but that was neither here nor there. He began to wonder if this was simply another aspect of his personality that separated him from the masses. He could notice and label whether someone was attractive or not but it had no true influence over his decisions or his objectivity. It was simply another category the same as someone being athletic or intelligent, useful in some instances, but only a trait and nothing more.

No, he'd never had a true interest in anyone, man or woman.

Until fifth year that was.

He supposed the first time he really noticed it was the train to Hogwarts. As was their yearly ritual they met in one of the back compartments, this time for just a few minutes before Tom would have to depart for a prefect's meeting. He'd been sitting by himself impatiently staring out the window at the station when Azrael had walked in.

It was like seeing Azrael and seeing a stranger all in the same instant. For a moment he was two different people, the familiar Azrael he had always known and this stranger who seemed somehow beautiful, and Tom caught himself feeling dazed and his throat dry.

The moment was broken by sound of Azrael's voice, "Congratulations, Tom, I could not imagine a world in which you are not the prefect."

Tom didn't remember what he'd said in response, something distracted, maybe a yes or of course, something that caused Azrael's thin eyebrows to raise as Tom attempted to gather himself from the aftermath of whatever that was.

Instead he had been trapped in those green eyes, filled equally with light and shadow, pulling Tom in as if they were a world in and of themselves.

He'd find himself thinking of Azrael in odd moments. This in itself wasn't completely new, Azrael was one of the few people in the school interesting enough to waste a few stray thoughts over. What was new though was his newfound hobby of watching Azrael, the movement of his hands, the slight tilt of his head when he was working on something, not even thinking just watching with an interest he could not explain even to himself. There was something hypnotic in those pale gloved hands; they weaved so many images, magic bled from his fingertips and even by watching Tom felt he could see the colors dancing off of them.

For the most part he'd decided to ignore these instances, he didn't like them, and if he didn't act on them then it was almost as if they never happened in the first place. It was distracting and more than a little alarming that his thoughts were so focused on one human being who couldn't even bring himself to pass History of Magic.

In hindsight, those first few months of his fifth year, Azrael had been worth watching but just not in the way Tom was doing it. Looking back there were signs here and there, a few stray winds from the oncoming storm, which should have been evident if he had even thought to pay attention. That year as the muggle war raged on, as Stalingrad became a graveyard, as labor camps were built across Eastern Europe, his eyes had become very dark. He seemed constantly distracted, but not in his usual distant way, he was bothered by something and could not get it out of his head.

What little effort he placed into classes disappeared almost altogether, practical work was done expertly, but essays and theory were thrown out the window. Years earlier during one of their little practice sessions Azrael had claimed that all magical theory was 'bullshit'. He claimed that although wizards had been studying the nature of magic for years they were still really just stumbling about in the dark. Magic, he said, was a poor word choice that implied ineffability when it really shouldn't.

Still, up until his fifth year he had at least done the essays, he had never received good grades often quoting muggles as legitimate resources and writing his own harebrained theories into the essays rather than anything they had actually been taught, but nevertheless he had done them.

By the beginning of fifth year Azrael had already made up his mind to leave Hogwarts.

Of course Tom had seen all of this, but in his own distraction, in his own attempts to avoid just staring at the boy he'd been too distracted to connect the dots. He'd seen it as one of Azrael's downswings, his bouts of chronic depression brought on by God only knew what, but nothing more than that certainly nothing more lasting. Somehow in his mind he refused to allow Azrael to change, he had to stay as he was, so that Tom could somehow move around him and past him and return to the way things used to be.

Attraction, lust, was a disease. It made the object of affection into a shallow limited thing, reduced them down to their components, until the subtleties were lost entirely. Tom knew the exact color of his eyes, the shape of his hands, the shade of his skin, and the texture of his feathered hair but he could not see the thoughts behind those green glass eyes and he hadn't even realized it.

* * *

The second event that occurred was his discovery of his heritage.

He felt that he should have realized sooner but given his acquaintanceship with his house mates he wasn't sure how the topic would have come up. He'd never even told Azrael, had never felt it was a talent worth sharing, it wasn't as if snakes were particularly interesting conversationalists, and he supposed that was reason enough for the delay. No, it had been quite an accident to learn that Parseltongue was the key to unlocking his ancestry.

He'd been sitting in the library by himself reading in the candle light, flicking through books here and there on the founders on little more than a whim, when he found the chapter on Parseltongue, a language only spoken by Slytherin's descendents. Suddenly, after years of proving his worth as a mudblood, there it was. Everything that proved his worth, that provided him a place among the elite, given to him in that hissing language he had always understood.

The whole time, every time he had to justify himself, it had all been a lie. He wasn't like every other mudblood because he wasn't a mudblood at all, he was as pure as it got, the heir of Slytherin the very founder of English blood purism. He'd remembered laughing, breaking down into hysterics, thinking of himself lording his purity over the Malfoys and the Blacks and all those others who had dared to look down on him when he was never a mudblood to begin with.

His smile and laughter had faded though as he'd realized that Tom Riddle could never be anything but a mudblood if Lord Voldemort was going to exist. Tom Riddle was a penniless orphan and even if he showed his new talent to his elitist friends it would change nothing. He would be a peer, not a master. No, Lord Voldemort had to rise from the ashes of Tom Riddle, that's how it had to be if he was going to exist at all.

"So, it doesn't make a difference after all." He said to himself.

It was then that he began his avid and almost obsessive search for the Chamber of Secrets.

He broke off wandless lessons shortly after his discovery, he'd never learned anything particularly useful from it anyway, he'd learned how to levitate more easily and cast better glamours and other seemingly random skills but certainly nothing as interesting as he'd initially hoped. There were better uses for his time. At least, that's what he told himself and Azrael when they met to discuss it.

They sat in Azrael's workshop laid out by the room of requirement, at least he supposed it was the workshop, it lacked the usual mess of gears and screw drivers and other equipment that Azrael usually kept lying around. Everything was neatly packed away giving the room a bare and almost empty look. Sitting on a stool Azrael held his face in his hands, his expression flat and unresponsive, as if he wasn't in the room at all.

"It's our fifth year, I have OWLs to study for, not to mention prefect duties, and frankly we don't have time for this anymore." Tom finished standing to leave and do one of the said activities if not a few others as well. He'd recently started researching more into the dark arts, that which the Ministry forbid, and while Azrael wasn't a huge fan of government Tom also felt that he might not be enthused with Tom's choice in extracurriculars.

He expected an, "I'm sorry you feel that way." Or perhaps an, "It's for the best." Or maybe even a "Why?" from Azrael but he received none of those. Instead, after a lengthy weighted silence, Azrael said, "There's a dark wizard in Germany, you know."

"What does that have to do with anything?" Tom snapped.

"They say he uses blood sacrifices of muggle born children to increase his magical potential." Azrael continued without inflection as if talking about the weather, "He's been travelling west, through France, and then maybe across the channel. Who can say? I wonder what war tastes like to a wizard, don't you, Tom?"

Azrael left pieces of himself, like puzzles, for Tom to find. He left them here and there, scattered through conversations, almost giving them to Tom and wishing him luck as he tried to piece it together. The trouble was Tom did not realize it was a puzzle until Azrael solved it for him, and by then it was far too late.

"I swear, Azrael, your mental illness is getting worse. That wasn't even a tangent."

Azrael sighed and stood as well, "You're right, it's probably for the best, do whatever it is you think needs to be done."

Tom nodded and began to walk away, he almost left without another word but without hearing Azrael's footsteps behind him he turned back. Standing in the room Azrael looked like a stray shadow, like something purely inhuman, a statue dressed in black without expression or thought in him. There was only stillness, only emptiness like the room, until he was the room of requirement. For a moment Tom couldn't find anything of Azrael in him.

"…No hard feelings, Azrael?" He asked, the Hufflepuff lifted his head and offered Tom a small and somber smile that spoke nothing of any real happiness.

"I have a question, before you go. The Slug Club, you never went back, why not?"

For a moment he wondered what that had to do with anything but he answered it all the same, "I didn't belong there."

He expected him to ask for clarification or dig further but all he said was, "Thank you, no hard feelings."

He rarely saw Azrael after that and instead spent most of his time checking the wallpaper for a snake that might lead him into the famed chamber of secrets.

* * *

When the German dark lord managed to substantiate himself from the level of rumor to fact there'd been a tangible change in atmosphere. Suddenly being in Slytherin seemed to have purpose, politics were a daily discussion and once again Tom found himself being glanced at and used as an example of the mudblood filth that the coming dark lord cleaned from his shoes. Grindlewald, his name was, and if the rumors were to be believed from France he was a plague of death to every city he had come across.

Among the general student population there was a general feeling of unease, this was war, not just a muggle war either but a wizarding war. Suddenly they were thrown into the conflict and had to think on possibilities of invasion and battle, should the German muggles have invaded there would be no problem, but the German wizards were a different tale.

The faculty was not immune either, he could see the looks of unease that passed between them. Dumbledore seemed particularly distant, distracted, so that even in class sometimes he would be caught staring out the window towards France where the dark lord edged steadily closer.

As usual Azrael was the only one who deviated from the pattern as news progressed he did not panic or gloat but rather seemed to grow flat. It seemed as if gravity near him grew more intense so that everything became weighted, his eyes seemed dulled, and it always looked as if he was lost somewhere in his own head working at a puzzle that was caught inside it.

Tom decided to prepare in the way he prepared for all confrontations, by being crueler and more lethal than his enemy, and if his enemy was going to be a dark lord then he would have to be nastier than a dark lord. It was his legacy after all, to look into the dark arts, his ancient ancestor Salazar Slytherin would be so very proud.

Tom Riddle might be a mudblood but should the German wizards invade and find him they'd be facing Lord Voldemort who was anything but.

It was in this frame of mind in December of 1942 that Azrael approached him for one final conversation as a Hogwarts student. Break was steadily approaching and with it the onslaught of snow. In spite of the tense atmosphere brought with the news of a dark lord students were talking avidly of spending the holidays with their families and the gifts they might receive, as if all their previous fears had been set aside, sure the German wizard was still lurking here and there in conversations but he wasn't the forefront. He was still in France after all, and there was a channel and appararition wards between there and England, there was still plenty of time.

Tom was once again hunting for the entrance, this time with eyes trained on the ceilings of the hallways, keeping an eye out for any snakes that might appear. He'd looked almost everywhere he could think of and had attempted basic scrying but he was not out of options quite yet, there was always research into the more specific and dangerous methods of divination. Staring up at the ceiling he almost didn't see Azrael at all.

Azrael's back was to the hallway, thin hunched black shoulders stood against Tom as the he stared out the window at the thickly falling flakes, and he didn't speak either seeming content to let Tom pass him by. In spite of his seeming indifference Tom knew that Azrael had appeared to talk to him, in his five years he had never seen Azrael in the hallways unless there was a reason for it.

So Tom paused in his search and waited for Azrael to turn towards him but the boy never did. He had grown taller in the past summer, so that he was almost as tall as Tom was, and somehow Tom found that the term boy no longer fit him but neither did man, as always Azrael was drifting from standard vocabulary.

It had been a while since he and Azrael had truly spoken, Tom had been avoiding him, it had seemed easier that way than to deal with the red cheeks and the stuttering heart beat that accompanied Azrael's presence. Oh sure, they sat together in the classes they shared. Transfiguration, Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, Charms and that cursed course known as Divination he would be right there sitting next to him his quill tapping some erratic rhythm on the table with a glazed look in his eyes that screamed of abject boredom. Tom was always painfully aware of him then, each tap of that quill like a gun shot, and somehow all thought of conversation flew out of his head. What was there to say?

Even now, staring only at his back, Tom couldn't help but notice the thin curve of his shoulder blades in the black robes and the pale shade of his neck. Like a bird, he looked like a bird that had drifted into human form.

"Azrael?" His voice sounded hoarse in his ears, as if he hadn't used it for quite some time, but he didn't want to clear it as if that was admitting some weakness.

Slowly Azrael turned from the window, and his expression was one of those that Tom had always been wary of, blank devoid of thought holding only that terrible power and inhuman beauty.

"You didn't return to the Slug Club." He stated without preamble, without any inflection, an observation and yet even so Tom noted that this observation seemed strangely heavy.

"Yes." Tom affirmed his eyebrows raising even as he said it wondering if Azrael was feeling a bit off. He wanted to ask if this, Tom's abandonment of the Slug Club, was what was bothering him.

When Tom had returned from the initial Slug Club meeting Azrael had seemed a bit different, distant but a forced awkward distance, as if instead of drifting from Hogwarts he was stepping back from it almost sheepishly. The way he acted, the bizarre nervousness that he'd never seen in Azrael, it made it seem as if Azrael didn't expect him to come back from the Slug Club at all. As if he'd somehow walk in there and… change.

Azrael had seemed rather surprised at the lack of companionship between Tom and his housemates, he kept looking at Malfoy, the Blacks, the Lestrange heir as if he fully expected Tom to be wandering off and chatting it up with the future lords of the most noble and ancient houses. When Tom threw out the next Slug Club invitation with a slight sneer of disgust he looked even more baffled. There was some metamorphosis, some critical moment of transformation he had been expecting, and it hadn't happened.

They'd never really discussed it and as time wore on and their fifth year approached Azrael appeared to let it drop but every once in a while, staring at Tom, he'd get that pensive expression that saved for late nights tinkering with his metallic inventions.

There was a smile then, a brighter smile than he had seen from Azrael in a long time. Azrael walked from the window, with that same awkwardness that had appeared after that first Slug Club meeting, and clasped Tom's hand.

His hands were strangely cool, even beneath the dark wrappings, and Tom hoped that his face wasn't turning red, "What are you doing?"

Azrael probably couldn't see either way, his eyes were trained on their joined hands, with a softness that had not been there since that first moment on the roof all those years ago.

"I… I wanted to thank you, Tom, for everything. For a long time I thought that I couldn't do anything, couldn't touch anything here, that I just had to sit and watch everything unfold again but…" He trailed off and then looked Tom directly in the eyes. There was a fire in those green eyes of his, a bright determination that had not been there before, "You didn't go back to the Slug Club, not once, and so I realized that things can change and that I am not… I am not impotent Tom, the universe is not written, and we can be Schrödinger's cat for as long as we wish. We are all our possibilities, in every moment, regardless of someone opening or closing a box. So I wanted, no, needed to thank you for that Tom."

He was still so unreachable, a burning distant star gleaming in the horizon, but his light extended further until Tom felt that he could almost touch him. So he couldn't say something cutting as he usually did, some jagged harsh turn of phrase that was meant to make Azrael bleed a little, he could only say, "… You're welcome." Without understanding why it needed to be said in the first place.

It was Azrael's way of saying goodbye.

They stood there awkwardly for a few more moments, waiting for the other to say something, anything but neither did. Finally Tom removed his hand from Azraels and said distractedly, "I have things to do, I'll see you in class tomorrow."

He walked away then not waiting for Azrael's response, most likely there hadn't been one at all, just Azrael staring at the retreating Tom Riddle with that peculiar unreadable expression that belonged solely to him.

The next day he simply thought that Azrael was skipping class for some unknown reason, by the end of the week he'd wondered if for the first time in five years Azrael had fallen ill, but by the week after it was evident to all parties that Azrael was no longer in Hogwarts at all.

**Author's Note: I almost feel bad for doing this to you people, everyone was so enthused by the progression of Tom and Azrael's relationship, but it's for the best. Thanks to readers and reviewers you guys are awesome reviews are appreciated.**

**The 100th review fic for October is out, titled Persistence of Memory, check it out if you want or not if you don't want to. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.**


	8. Chapter 8

There was a dead rat at his feet. It had had the misfortune of wandering into the dungeons and from there into Tom's room, it had scurried here and there unaware of Tom's presence, and Tom had watched its scurrying feet and twitching nose. Lying on the bed cold blue eyes dissected it, just as easily as they had once Billy's little bunny, and it was almost without thought that he reached onto the nightstand grabbed his wand and said two blank words.

So now there was a dead rat on his floor and he was feeling strangely empty as he stared at its glassy eyed corpse. His only thought was to hide the evidence so that even the most powerful of revealing charms would not show _Avada_ _Kedavera_ hiding in the myriad of spells he had used throughout the day.

He knew that no one would check though; as unforgivable as the Unforgivables were no one would miss a rat in the wrong place at the wrong time.

It was not his most violent act since Azrael's sudden disappearance. After a few weeks when it became clear that Azrael was not simply hiding in some unknown region of Hogwarts Tom had gone into the Room of Requirements, into Azrael's workshop, and had burned everything in sight. He had stood there, watching the metal gears twist and melt to form decrepit liquid statues and the wooden desk fall to splinters. In the center of the flames he had imagined Azrael himself, no expression on his face, and his green eyes boring back into Tom's.

There was something about the Unforgivables though.

He'd once had a conversation with Azrael on the subject. They had been fourteen at the time, only then entering what Tom considered to be the interesting topics in Defense Against the Dark Arts. He'd always been intrigued by the dark arts, by that which made the ministry turn and shudder, and chief among them were the three curses for which a wizard or witch could not be forgiven.

"I wouldn't pay those categories too much mind, Tom" Azrael had said as they were walking out of the room.

The lecture that day had been on the Unforgivables, a brief and entirely insufficient description of each, a description of what awaited wizards and witches who dared to use them as well as some other pointless nattering. It had been thoroughly disappointing but Tom had never the less been interested.

"What are you talking about?" Tom had replied, almost by instinct at this point, but Azrael didn't rise to the bait rather he continued speaking knowing that Tom was following the context with no real problems.

"Despicable, perhaps, most definitely for the first two but tell me, why the third?" Azrael mused before continuing, "Do you know what the killing curse was originally designed for, Tom?"

Power, he'd wanted to reply, to feel like death himself where nothing in the world could stop you and the pitiful people before you could only beg.

"It was designed for efficiency. To kill without mistake, without maiming, an instant painless death when death is the only option left to you. The intent needed to do it, consider that the safety, you cannot use it unless you truly mean it. That is why wizards consider it so terrifying, because its only use is death, there is no fooling yourself to believe it has some other purpose. The killing curse leaves no room for hypocrisy, for self-doubt, and wizards hate that."

"I think they find it terrifying because it kills them." Tom noted drily to which Azrael smiled slightly.

"Perhaps, consider Azkaban though, Tom. Tell me, the slow painful death of having your soul and will sucked from your body, to sit shivering in shackles as you feel every bright moment of your life fading into an abyss, how is that not considered unforgivable?"

Tom had never been one for morality, he'd always known that he lacked something that seemed so integral to others, he had never seen a use for it. Billy Stubb's rabbit had been more useful lynched then it ever had alive and yet they had looked at him like he was the very devil after it. He'd never considered Azrael as being particularly good or bad, light or dark, it always seemed as if these standards could never touch him.

"Humans are capable of despicable, perhaps even unforgivable, acts; more than most people can even imagine or recognize, but the killing curse is not one of them."

And yet here it was, this dead rat lying on his floor with eyes staring at the ceiling without even an expression of fear as the green light had been too fast to register fully. With a flick of his wand and a muttered word the rat burst into flames on his carpet; a small funeral pyre that befitted the most noble of vermin.

He had wondered if he was truly capable of it, he had hurt yes, he had hurt with the intentions that it be painful but he had never killed. Now though, after having finally done it, he was stretched thin at having to feel anything at all.

"So, this is what it is like to be Lord Voldemort."

* * *

By Christmas break he came to the unshakable conclusion that Azrael was well and truly gone.

It had been a few weeks by that point and in those weeks the Hufflepuff had never once reappeared. There was vague interest in his disappearance; it came up on the sides of conversations, sandwiched in between Grindlewald, mudbloodism, and obnoxious flirting on the parts of some of the girls in his class.

That had been a change; he hadn't realized how intimidating people found Azrael. He had this wild fey look about him so that when you stared in his eyes you had this alarming thought that he wasn't quite human. Tom had grown used to it over the years and lately he had found it strangely captivating.

Apparently it was only Tom who felt that way because as soon as Azrael's disappearance at his side solidified in the general populace's mind the girls began to swarm like locusts.

Minerva McGonagall, Gryffindor prefect, emulating all that was brave and rule abiding was the first to approach him. He saw her at the usual prefect meetings and he'd done a few projects with her in his first two years, back when he had pretended that Azrael didn't exist, and he considered himself to be on vaguely good terms with her considering he was an evil racist Slytherin and she was a noble pure hearted Gryffindor.

"Hello Tom," She said in a stiff voice that spoke volumes about her nervousness approaching him. He'd been sitting in the library, a book in hand but staring out the window instead, attempting to focus but that gnawing anxiety about Azrael's disappearance was distracting him. He'd been going through periods of anxiety, rage, overwhelming loneliness, and desperation he couldn't quite explain even to himself. It left him at most times unable to read and sometimes unable to think so that all he could do was sit there and stare ahead as if captivated by the scenery.

At the end he was left feeling empty, as if all his emotions had been poured out of him. In that short time he had gone further and faster into the dark arts than he had intended sometimes imagining that it was Azrael rather than rats beneath the wand. While these acts of gratuitous violence seemed to calm him down, brought a sickly sweet almost relieved smile to his face, the acts felt like little more than dust floating in the air that might someday find its way beneath Azrael's feet. He could see him when he closed his eyes, that expression of pure indifference, and those bright green eyes whose color Tom now knew matched the killing curse.

He turned from the window with raised eyebrows, being in the back corner of the library McGonagall would have had to go quite out of her way to reach him. Azrael had once suggested they set up a betting pool for Hogwarts Quidditch, formalize it and run it in such a way that Tom and him could make something of a profit. Nothing had ever come of it. He had that the idea of earning money was more for his benefit than for Azrael's, and after fifth year they had both become busy and then…

Still, those had only been idle discussions between him and Azrael in Divination when they had gotten bored of staring into murky balls of glass. They were nothing to take seriously, and though Minerva McGonagall had a passion for Quidditch that was almost inspiring even she would not be so offended by idle chat of gambling.

"Hello, Minerva, how may I help you this fine day?"

Tom was then to bear witnessed to the stiffest and possibly most awkward round of flirting he'd ever seen. Eventually she had scurried out of the library looking quite red leaving Tom to blink and stare after her. "Well, that was decidedly weird."

She was to be the first of many. At first it was almost flattering; certainly distracting from his growing depression over the weeks approaching Christmas, but then it began to grate on his nerves. Perhaps the most interesting aspect of these red faced, twittering, girls was that they each at some point brought up Azrael and the fact that he was not present. It was as if he was a piece of news worthy only of small talk, on par with the weather or his plans for the holidays, something to be said with quick polite smile and false interest.

So they did notice his absence, even if it made them somewhat relieved, even if it somehow unconsciously gave them permission to descend on Tom like ravenous territorial wolves. They weren't completely blind to the fact that he was simply gone.

Amongst the faculty there seemed to be an undercurrent of what seemed almost to be relief, certainly the Divinations professor was breathing easier, and whenever their eyes slid to that empty seat next to Tom their smiles would grow slightly.

"Well, Tom, Mr. Azrael was always a bit…"

On the day before break had started he had met with Slughorn in his office, he hadn't talked to Slughorn often after having rejected the Slug Club offers, it had been too awkward and there had no longer been a reason to.

He didn't know what he had expected when he had asked to speak to his head of house, Azrael was a Hufflepuff not even a Slytherin, but perhaps a sliver of hope still burned inside him for the wizarding world. Perhaps he expected that even for Azrael, someone that no one had appeared to like who was the running gag of the school on days he remembered at all, there would be at least some concern for his rapid disappearance.

Tom said nothing, merely gripped his robes with white knuckles and stared straight ahead at Slughorn without any expression on his face.

"Well, let's just say he wasn't like you Tom." Slughorn finished with a shake of his head, "It does happen you know, from time to time, some children simply aren't cut out for Hogwarts. He always had trouble here, in this school, ever since the beginning and fifth year is a very hard year for students. I hate to say it Tom because I know he was your friend, but perhaps the pressure of OWLs was simply too great."

It was so very clear in that last sentence alone that Slughorn had never known Azrael at all.

He remembered thinking at the time that he wasn't really talking to Slughorn but instead was talking to Dippet at the end of his third year, at the verge of begging as London was being riddled with bombs, and that cheerful false understanding smile cast back at him, 'I'm sorry Tom but it's for the best you see…'

"I see." Tom said softly, and he imagined that if he could stare in a mirror his eyes would be as hard as flint.

Slughorn managed to look sympathetic there, his bushy eyebrows softening slightly, "I know it's hard, and we have looked for him, but I'm afraid he's just not here. Perhaps, Tom, this is an opportunity to make some new friends. Come back to the Slug Club, we'd be glad to have you again."

Later he'd consider that meeting, consider his peers, and wonder for what purpose would Lord Voldemort exist? Why rule these petty, shallow, pampered people who knew nothing of death or fear or hatred? It would be like ruling a kingdom of sheep, incapable of little more than being guarded by dogs and eaten by wolves. What were these people, this nation, worth in the end?

He knew somehow that just as he could never touch Azrael these people would never manage to touch him, even if he beat it into them, if he shone brighter than the sun they would still be the same because that's what humans were and wizards were pathetically and terribly human at the end of the day.

In those years in the orphanage, before there had been others, when there had just been Tom he had vowed to himself that he would rise above them all as he was clearly meant to. In the blinding promise of the wizarding world he had forgotten what he truly was, nothing had changed since before that meeting with Albus Dumbledore, nothing at all.

"I'll burn it, I'll burn it all until there's nothing left of these people, only things that deserve to live should live. Mudblood, pureblood, wizard, muggle, Lord Voldemort will see to all of them."

* * *

He sometimes dreamed about Azrael, as the winter passed his mind would wander and he'd catch glimpses of feathered hair or green eyes. In the corridor of his dreams the Hufflepuff was everywhere.

Everything seemed softer in these dreams, the scenery faded and filled with light, and Azrael somehow within reach. He always smiled there, the genuine smile he rarely wore, and in his eyes there was only Tom and nothing else.

It was a shadow of his memory, even in the dreams Tom knew that, and he would wake up with tired eyes and wonder why his mind held so desperately to such images. Azrael had left without a word, without a glance behind, back into the abyss he had come from so why was he still so present in Tom's mind?

Behind the search for the Chamber of Secrets there now rested Azrael, who had once assured him of its existence, somehow even though he knew it was irrational Tom expected to find the Hufflepuff there as much as he would expect to find the Minotaur in the labyrinth.

He was tired, that was the truth of the matter. He'd lost his faith in wizards, in humanity really, and that left him feeling worn. Lord Voldemort's vibrant promise still beat inside his head but it seemed so hollow, so empty, when juxtaposed with the realities of magical Britain and the wizards that infested it.

Would he have even noticed, he wondered, if he had not taken that gloved hand up to the roof three years before? Azrael burned so brightly, so that when he was gone Tom could not help but turn and see how dim the promise of the wizarding world truly was.

Somehow he doubted it, he had been a different Tom then all things considered, he had always risen above his peers but it had been so easy to see what he had wanted. An escape from muggle mediocrity, not realizing that it was simply humanity that was the wretchedness, being a muggle only meant they lacked the magic to make it glitter.

No, now he found his vision had to change, to change with Tom so that it was only him standing above all of them once again. To recognize that there were no real differences between muggles and wizards. In the end they were more or less the same as little Billy's bunny. It was just hard sometimes, to let go of something as profound and tender as an unrealized vision.

If he owned any photographs of Azrael he would have burned them at that point just for forcing him to let go of his own illusions.

One dream he had was different than the others, it was starker, and it carried the weight of reality with it.

He was somewhere very cold and white, the buildings were stark and many appeared to be in ill repair, in the distance he could hear the firing of guns and the shouting of men. Across from him, on one of the buildings, leaned the familiar Azrael with an expression that had a tenderness he rarely saw from the Hufflepuff.

"Hello, Tom. You must be quite distressed if your occlumency barriers are low enough that you wandered here." He didn't move forward, but rather remained leaning against the building. He looked tired, there were dark circles beneath his eyes, but even so he seemed more alive than Tom remembered. That burning determination he had seen in his eyes, during their last conversation, had not extinguished itself but appeared to have merely grown brighter.

"Azrael?" Tom asked stepping toward him. Azrael nodded but didn't say anything even when Tom stopped in front of him, close enough to touch him but not quite managing.

They stood there in silence, Tom just standing and taking in the sight of him, thin and pale and looking so very adult in this dreamed wasteland.

Finally the rage took over, "How could you? How could you just leave?"

His hand darted out before he could stop it, he punched Azrael in the face, and watched not without satisfaction as Azrael's nose crunched in on itself and began to bleed. Stooped over they both waited as the blood seeped from his face, but soon enough with a silent twitch of his hand the nose was back in its original position as if nothing had happened and the blood was gone. He stood up, his expression containing both worry and bafflement, "Has anyone missed me?"

It was like being slapped in the face by Mrs. Cole, some part of him had seen it coming but it still stung and he was left standing dumbfounded in its wake. He had often wondered how Azrael pictured him, but they had been idle thoughts, he had known there had been expectations but he had never truly questioned what Azrael saw when he looked at Tom. It must have been terribly shallow, whatever this thing was that Azrael saw in his place, nothing more than any of the other wizards just pretending to be superior.

Attraction was a disease, because even then, even with Azrael casually tossing Tom's feelings, affection he had never had for anyone before, away as if it was nothing he still looked so very beautiful.

Tom stepped forward and placed his hands on Azrael's shoulders, as if to ground him and keep him from drifting. Azrael didn't flinch but he did stiffen beneath Tom's fingers and held very still as Tom's rested his forehead against Azrael's.

(Just stay, don't say anything, just stay. That's all you have to do.)

"I am very tired." Tom stated, his lips cracking into a wry smile, and he wondered if these out of context words made him sound like Azrael. "Where are we?"

"Stalingrad." Azrael said one of his gloved hands tentatively reaching up to Tom's on his shoulders, "The Stalingrad that exists in my head when I'm dreaming."

"A charming vacation spot, I'm sure." He let out a sort of breathless chuckle but other than the shaking of his chest and shoulders he did not move, kept Azrael pinned against the wall, he felt so very tired even in a dream.

They listened to the gun-shots for a few moments, to those distant cries of pain, and the whisper of the wind that wound its way through the empty buildings. Finally with a sigh Tom lifted his head and stared at Azrael and allowed his emotions to settle into place.

"Why did you go?"

Azrael removed Tom's hands from his shoulders and held them in his own, like he had on that day before he left, "Why do you work so hard to transcend what was given to you, Tom? There were things that needed to be done, I had wasted enough time already, I just hadn't realized it at the time."

"What things require throwing out your education?" This was harsher, the anger and frustration returning, as he stared at his stubbornly unflappable friend.

"I never learned anything at Hogwarts, I think you know that, I never belonged there." He stopped for a moment a smile that was almost purely bitter gracing his lips before shaking his head and continuing, "You know, I think the only reason I stayed so long in the first place was because of you."

Tom realized then, that Azrael was his most cutting in his kindness, his more dangerous moods had never left Tom feeling as wrecked as he did now. He just wanted to laugh, to let those fatigued almost mad chuckles escape him, even though nothing seemed funny at all.

"You knew the whole time, didn't you?" He asked a wry smile growing on his face, one that matched Azrael's without even trying.

"Knew what?"

"Wizards are just pampered over powered muggles, running in the halls with knives hoping they won't trip and tear themselves to pieces."

Azrael just stared at him, his own smile fading, but his eyes still burning never leaving Tom's face. Finally, in a solemn tone that matched the sound of the distant gunshots and cries of pain, "I never claimed they were not human, Tom. Do you remember what I told you, before I left?"

He felt that if he searched the halls of his memory hard enough he could find every word Azrael had ever spoken burned into the walls.

"Some poetic nonsense, I'm sure." He replied instead but with a shaking smile that gave away the lie.

"We are all our possibilities. Do what you must, Tom. Just remember that you can transcend even yourself at the end of the day."

And with that they were gone and Tom was waking to the sight of his dorm room ceiling.

**Author's Note: How does Tom respond to abandonment? Violence, murder, and proclamations of death and destruction of course. **

**A note to readers, this fic does have pairing brackets, so it is slash. That being said I don't do fluff, romance, or general relationship angst it's very rare when I include relationships in my story at all. This will not turn into a fic where the main focus is people's romantic feelings towards each other and or sex, if any of that does happen it will be subplot to other things happening in the story. For those of you who liked the relationship aspect, it'll still be there and definitely more blatant than relationships in most of my works where people barely even acknowledge that there is a relationship at all friendship or otherwise, but it will always be a subsection of the main plot. **

**Honestly it was a rather last minute decision on whether I wanted to make October slash or not, I mostly did it because I'd never done it before and it's always good to try out new things. So be at ease dear readers. **

**Thank you to readers and reviewers, you guys are awesome, reviews are appreciated.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter**


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